


Sagebrush Sky: The Cowboy and the Necromancer

by StarsGarters



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angels, Bisexual Male Character, Cowboy Hats, Cowboys, Cults, Demons, Drunk Blow Jobs, Elder God, Good Alexander Pierce, Good Brock Rumlow, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Necromancy, Paranormal, black magic, doomsday prophecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2020-10-06 04:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsGarters/pseuds/StarsGarters
Summary: It's 1986. Brock is a cowboy on a ranch in the middle of nowhere. That suits him just fine as he has the unfortunate gift of being able to see dead people. His life is haunted by spirits and by repressed desires. One night he hits a strange man with his truck. The stranger claims to be possessed by a god and if the cult he escaped from finds him, the world will end. Brock would really hate for the world to end on his account...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BdrixHaettC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BdrixHaettC/gifts), [Haettc](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Haettc).

Wind whipped through the valley, stirring up alkaline dust. Brock pulled his battered red pickup truck into the gravel driveway of the Timms ranch. He picked up a clean glass casserole dish from the bench seat beside him and sighed. Brock rolled down his window and braced himself for the onslaught of neighborly goodwill.

“Why hello there Brock. What brings you out here?” Sharon Timms leaned against his truck, a bright red scarf tied about her throat to match her candy-apple lips and her hands full of tin-foiled promises. Her predatory smile made Brock feel uneasy, like she was sizing him up to eat him. “I mean you’re always welcome here. At my place. In my place. You’re just always welcome.”

It didn’t help that her dead mother, Blanche, was standing on the front porch behind them. Blood flowed from a gash on her head and soaked the front of her floral housecoat. The official story was that Blanche had fallen accidentally, but Brock had his doubts. There was no love lost between the two women and everyone in the valley knew it. Spirits who passed naturally tended to look dazed, like they’d just woken up from a nap and forgotten what time it was. Blanche stared at her oblivious daughter with murder in her eyes. 

“Just returning your dish, Miss Sharon. I’ll be on my way.” He held the casserole dish out the window. It was replaced with a new dish, covered in aluminum foil and heavy with casserole. _Obligation casserole_. Food meant to lure him into warm thoughts about the cook, food to coax him into wanting sweet kisses at the drive-in movie theater. Brock was _sick _of obligation casserole. He set it on the bench-seat beside him.

“That is for you and the Rogers, of course. I know how lonely it gets out here and some good food really helps take the edge off that. If you like, you could come by for a home-cooked dinner and some company. We missed you at the funeral.” Brock didn’t go to funerals or to church. He knew the spirits in the valley, most of them came from the same four or five families that had hunkered down on this patch of desolate land. The native spirits were much rarer, their dark eyes piercing, but none of them were as disturbing as Blanche.

“I heard that Steve rented out his other place to a bunch of hippies. Are they really making that old place into a rehab center? Like for strung out rich kids?”

“Seems like it. They pay their rent on time. I haven’t been up there.” Steve and Peggy needed the extra cash. The bankers didn’t care that their debts were inherited. The group of peace and love folks wanted to pay double what the place usually rented for and that was just fine with the Rogers.

“You know I thought it was weird that other group turned the Wintersage school into a boarding school, but then it made sense.” Sharon laughed. “Where are runaways going to run away to out here? There’s nothing out there. If I turned my back to the Winter Rim,” she hooked a thumb over her shoulder, “And just walked, I don’t think I’d see another soul for hundreds of miles.”

It was true. Not a single _living _soul. But that’s why Brock liked living in the high desert. Crowded cities, even small towns, were overwhelming. It was tough to tell the living from the dead. A lot of the time the spirits didn’t have obvious injuries. They wore modern clothing while the living folks dressed in retro styles. Brock alway stopped his beat-up truck when apparitions wandered onto the highway, squinting at them until they evaporated like steam.

Sharon tucked a strand of peroxide blond hair behind her ear. “It’s been really hard for me, Brock. Since Mama passed. I’m not used to running this big old ranch all by myself.” The Timms’ place was not what Brock would call a _big old ranch_. They weren’t even running any cattle, just selling grazing lots to the neighbors. Sharon had been running the place for years now. “The fences and the corral need so much work.” A dramatic sigh as she rested her arms on the windowsill of his truck. “If only I had a pair of big, strong hands to help me.”

And there it was, the promise of his own place. Sagging fences could be mended and busted corrals could be fixed, but that meant living with Sharon and her furious dead mother. Blanche shook her head at him, silently mouthing the word _no. _Her gnarled hands curled into red tipped claws, phantom blood staining her nails as she mimed scratching her own throat. When Brock could figure out what they were trying to say, the spirits never lied to him.

“That’s a heavy scarf for such a warm day, Miss Sharon.” Her hand flew to her throat, wide-eyed with surprise for a moment. Then her face melted back into a sweet red-lipped mask.

“Oh the house is terribly drafty these days. It seems like there’s always a cold breeze blowing on me. Even in my bed.” Her pink pointed tongue moistened her red-red lips. “Which is always open to you, Brock.”

Brock shifted his truck into reverse and began to roll backwards onto the highway. Sharon stepped back, protecting her toes. “That’s a very kind offer, Miss Sharon. Thank you for the food. You have a good afternoon.”

“Any time! Remember my standing invitation!” Sharon called at him. “Any time!”He glanced back in his mirror. Sharon was rubbing her arms for warmth as the spirit of her dead mother flailed gnarled fists at her. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very long chapter, but it sets up the rest of the story nicely.   
TW: Alexander Pierce being a creep. Which is probably the only canon thing about this story.

Scalloped potato casserole with chunks of bacon, topped with crushed potato chips. Salty and gummy. It stuck to the roof of his mouth. Brock took a swig of milk and choked back his mouthful, then moved to his much safer canned green beans.

“Free food is free food.” His ranch boss, Steve, stifled a smile and pushed his portion around on his plate. “Peg, I wouldn’t eat that with your blood pressure.”

“Sharon was very kind to make us this—“ Steve’s wife grimaced, her wrinkled brow furrowing. “Food.”

“The dog might like it. I mean he was was chewing on that roadkill the other day.” Steve buttered his biscuit, “She means well, but Heather’s casseroles are so much better. You should go over and say hi to Heather, Brock.”

“We are not taking advantage of these lonely women.” Peggy scraped her plate into the garbage. “Anyway, Susan makes the best pie. You could do worse than a woman who bakes, young man.”

“I doubt it would be fair to any of them to have to deal with me.” Brock helped himself to a biscuit, slathered it with butter and preserves. His elderly employers shrugged at that. They seemed to think it was misplaced modesty. It was simply the truth. “I fixed the fence in the north pasture. Tomorrow I’ll drive up to Camp Two and check things out there.”

The Lazy Eight ranch was once the largest ranch in the entire state, but then the banks came for their money and all that was left were two large parcels. Camp One was where Steve and Peggy lived. They had a modest house with a basement near the barns and corrals. The old bunkhouse was long empty and the little red one-room schoolhouse had been donated to a historical museum ages ago. There were no spirits haunting the property, at least none that had appeared to Brock.

Camp Two’s ranch house was much larger, with three stories and narrow stairs. It was too much for one old couple to deal with so they rented it out to anyone who wanted to live twenty minutes away from the nearest town, Wintersage boasted a population of 260 people. The county seat, had 2,500 souls. All of the _towns_, Brock used the word generously, in the county were the distance apart that a man on a good horse could travel in one day. It was frontier territory even in 1986.

“Why not tonight?” Peggy rinsed her plate. “People never expect late night visitors and I’d like to know if our new tenants are getting up to anything _questionable._”

“You want me to make sure they’re not growing weed, right?” Brock gave the casserole up as a lost cause and took another biscuit. “See if there’s any illegal moonshine stills cooking, things like that?”

“That’s what I like about you Brock. You’re a sharp one.” Peggy smiled at him as she dried her plate. “We should have given them the casserole.”

“Peggy, we want to _keep _them as renters.” Steve snorted. “Not chase them off. We already cleared the minor renovations they wanted to do, repainting and the like. Lord knows the old homestead needs an update to the current century. We’d appreciate you checking out the grounds, Brock. And leave me a biscuit.”

#

It was a twenty minute backroad drive to Camp Two. You could get there on the main highway as well, but Brock didn’t feel like driving fast. He was in no hurry to meet the new renters. The last lingering rays of sunlight painted the sky in a riot of reds and oranges, soon to be quelled by endless night sky studded with stars.

Whenever Brock was in town at night, he missed the stars. There was something humbling about the smear of cosmic stars in the Milky Way. No matter how weird his life was, he was made of stardust. Brock wanted to buy a telescope to set up on the back porch of his trailer, but he contented himself by gazing up at the heavens until mosquitos made him retreat inside.

A lonely country singer crooned on the crackling AM radio and Brock whistled along with the tune. He watched for the green-eyed gleam of deer crossing the gravel road. Stupid things seemed determined to jump out in front of his truck. He couldn’t see the ghosts of dead animals, a small mercy. 

After an uneventful drive, Brock pulled into the driveway of Camp Two. A sign emblazoned with a many rayed gilt sun proclaimed, _Welcome to The Brotherhood._ Brock shut off his truck and opened his door. He shut it and turned to find a bald man in a intricate red robe standing in front of him. Brock hadn’t heard any footsteps on the gravel.

The man beamed a sunny grin at him and held his arms open in a gesture of benevolence. “Welcome to The Brotherhood, all are welcome in our home. I am Jasper. Welcome to The Brotherhood. What is your name?” Brock suddenly wanted to get back in his truck, overwhelmed by the enthusiastic welcome.

“I’m Brock. I’m the caretaker for these grounds. I was just in the area and thought I’d drop by and take a look at things.”

“We hardly ever get visitors.” Jasper seemed to take his explanation at face value. “Please, come with me.” He lifted his robes to keep the hem out of the dirt, his feet were bare. “You’ve come on a most auspicious date. Did you know that tonight is the peak of the meteor shower and that a comet will be intersecting the Sacred Triangle?”

“I did not know that.” Brock doffed his cowboy hat. “That does seem fancy.”

The walls and ceiling of the foyer were painted an inky black and the beige carpet was replaced with shiny black lacquered hardwood. _Goddamn. That was going to be a bitch to paint over when these folks moved out. _Flickering red candles in jars provided the only light. “You do have fire extinguishers, right?”

“Of course! Fire alarms with fresh batteries too! Every life in The Brotherhood is sacred and must be properly protected.” Jasper led Brock to the kitchen and eating area, the label of dining room was far too formal for ranch hired hands. A candlelit room full of robed bald men stood up at Jasper’s signal and they all bowed in unison. “My Brothers, this is Brock. Let us welcome him into our arms and share our hospitality.”

Brock crushed his hat against his chest and nodded in reply to their overwhelming formality. They held out their arms and said in unison, “Welcome Brock. Welcome to The Brotherhood.”

“Oh I’m not a joiner—“ Brock began, taking a step backwards. “Just taking a look around for the landlords—“

“Of course!” A tall movie-star handsome man stepped through the beaded curtains. He was wearing a white button down shirt with rolled up sleeves and well worn blue jeans. He looked oddly out of place in the crimson and black room, but everyone in the room deferred to him, bowing their bald heads in respect.

He held out his hand in greeting and Brock shook it. “Ah, you’re a working man. You’ve got the calluses to show for it. I’m Alex. I run this retreat. It’s a lot of work but I do love it.” A dazzling smile of white straight teeth that was meant to put Brock at ease. “I finally figured out why you’ve got this green lawn out front. It’s so you can see the rattlesnakes before they make it to your front door, isn’t it?” Brock nodded. “Come with me, I’ve got a question about the pump house.” Alex grabbed a flashlight from a bookshelf and gestured to Brock to follow. The members of the Brotherhood, raised their heads as he left the room. They watched Brock in silence as he donned his hat and followed their leader.

“As you can see we fixed the screen on the back porch so those damned mosquitos won’t drain us dry during evening prayers. Most nights we have telescopes set up for our charting. And our vegetable garden is making slow steady progress, the ground squirrels are tenacious.” Alex spoke like a realtor showing off a home. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel. The exterior lights were turned off and the curtains drawn tight to hold in the candlelight. “Sometimes the water turns this awful shade of orange. Is that something to do with the pump?” Alex opened the pump house door and shined his flashlight inside.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary, they’d replaced the pump a few years back. “Just the water table. There’s been a drought for a long time and that makes the water table drop down to the iron deposits deep in the well-shaft.Sometimes the water turns purple or yellow. It’s not bad for you, but it will make a mess of the whites in your laundry. You’re lucky that you have a normal well. This whole area is riddled with the remains of old volcanos, you’re just as likely to dig a scalding hot geyser instead of a drinking well.”

“That’s good to know. And it makes sense. There’s so much power lurking here, untapped and unsullied. I was here a long time ago and I sensed it. Sometimes everything just falls into place, it’s destiny.” He laughed to himself. “Well, it’s a lot of hard work and sacrifice to achieve your goals, but it is so worth it. Listen to me. I’m babbling. I suppose that I can indulge a little.”

Alex clicked off the flashlight, leaving them in the starlight. “Just look at that sky. Once your eyes adjust you can see miles of sky. Not a cloud or an artificial light to tarnish your sight. This is what our ancestors saw when they emerged from their caves. It’s so powerful. Do you look at the stars, Brock?”

“I do.” Brock watched the man beside him, rather than the stars. He wouldn’t have been out of place on a television soap opera, square jaw and high cheekbones topped off with greying blonde hair. Sharon Timms would bring him a casserole everyday. He swallowed back his urge to know more about Alex. The last thing he needed to do was to make a pass on a tenant. “Is there anything else I need to check out?”

Alex continued as if he hadn’t heard Brock. “This is why I brought our little family out here. The pure unspoiled perfection of the night sky on a new moon. Do you believe in Heaven, Brock?” And there it was, the sales pitch. _Come join our creepy little church! Get a set of robes and a spiffy new haircut! _

“I do not.” It seemed insincere to believe in heaven or hell when he could see the spirits of the dead wandering all over town. The afterlife was nothing to look forward to.

Alex tipped his head back and grinned at Brock. “Neither do I. What I do believe is that there is something out there greater than our tiny world, something ancient and powerful out there in the cosmos. Something that will remake this planet. It is just waiting for a signal, a signal that true believers are waiting for it. I’ve been waiting so long for the right night, the right signs…” Alex sighed and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Do you believe in signs? Things that predetermine our destinies.”

And that was enough for Brock. He’d heard all the recruiting speeches before, hollow promises of peace, love and tolerance. “I should be getting back. You have a nice evening, Alex.” Brock turned to leave.

“You’re different than most people, Brock. By starlight, I can see your aura.”

“My _what_?” Brock blinked in surprise. He was indeed different from other people, but no one would believe him. Was this a pick up line? _Was it_? He paused and turned towards the church leader. Alex was looking him up and down like a prize heifer at the county fair. His pink tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“Your aura. The energy that surrounds your body. Your personal signature in the cosmos. It’s fascinating.” He stepped close and ran his hand along Brock’s stubbled jaw, a whisper of space separating them. “It’s indigo here, by your eyes. But then it thins out to a murky grey with a ribbon of gold. _Fascinating_._” _Alex smiled, starlight reflected in his pale eyes. “That means nothing to you, I know. Indigo is very rare, it means that you have a special power, some sort of ability that borders on the supernatural. Can you see the future, Brock?”

_Holy shit. _Brock shook his head. “I can say, with all certainty, that I cannot see the future.” He hazarded a nervous laugh. Alex regarded him with a raised eyebrow and a solemn expression. Brock took a step back. “And we can all see the present and the past, so maybe my aura is just messed up.”

“No. I’m never wrong. The grey means you’re spiritually blocked or hiding something.” Alex once again stepped close. Closer than was permitted by polite society. He peered at the swell of Brock’s pectorals. “The gold is as rare as the indigo. It means you’re protected by some unearthly power. Signs upon signs. I do not ignore the portents when they speak to me. Why would a handsome cowboy in the middle of nowhere have an aura like yours? Why would you show up on my doorstep on this night of all nights?” Alex crooned.

“My bosses sent me to make sure you weren’t growing pot on the back porch.” Brock blurted out as Alex pressed his hand against Brock’s chest, right above his heart. His pulse thundered in his ears as Alex closed his eyes and inhaled. Alex held his breath for a moment, then exhaled while opening his eyes. Alex’s eyes were _starlight_. Pools of void speckled with pin pricks of light. Brock felt pulled into their depths, he forgot how to breathe and stood frozen under Alex’s star-lit gaze. Something writhed in his brain, curled around the base of his skull. It was _searching_, seeking out secrets, thumbing through Brock’s mind like pages of a book.

_No. _The word echoed in Brock’s mind, nearly knocking him to his knees. _But he hadn’t said anything aloud._

Alex’s head snapped back as if he’d been punched by an invisible fist. He stumbled and regained his footing, a fistful of Brock’s flannel shirt clutched in his hand. A thin ribbon of blood trickled from his nose. He wiped the blood on the back of his hand, smearing it. A slow smile curled over bloodstained lips. “_Fascinating_. Your golden guardian, your protector kicked me out, but I know at least _one_ of your secrets now._”_

Sweat trickled down Brock’s back. “Which one?”

“This one.” Alex purred as he yanked Brock closer and pressed his bloody lips to Brock’s.

Brock had been kissed before. Women in town who wanted a good time, men in crowded cities with no shame. But nothing compared to the feeling of his mouth being devoured by a crazy man who saw auras under the stars. The metallic tang of blood lingered on Brock’s tongue as Alex pulled away.

Alex adjusted himself, straightened his collar. “As much as I’d like to pursue this pleasure, I do have other plans for this evening. And sadly, the stars wait for no man. At least not yet. I shall walk you to your truck.”

“You forgot your flashlight.” Brock stammered as he followed Alex, his brain wooly with confusion and arousal.

Alex smiled, his nose still dribbling blood and opened the truck door for Brock. “I don’t need it. You’re not the only one with an indigo aura.” 

#

About half way down the paved main highway, a man waved at him from the middle of the road. Brock pulled over onto a wide spot on the shoulder and parked. The spirit gesticulated wildly at Brock, a mangled arm dangling uselessly at his side and then evaporated into mist. Probably a drunk driver from the forties or fifties by his clothes, he wasn’t an expert about fashion. It was easier to ponder that than the oddness of what had just occurred. 

He sat in silence for as long as he could bear the screaming of his own thoughts. What was odder, a man who claimed he could could see Brock’s abnormal aura or a man who would kiss a total stranger like that? It was not something that was done, it violated every social norm. No one local knew Brock’s secret shameful desires and he had to keep it that way.

“What the hell was that? Who does that?” Brock murmured to himself as he touched his lips, the taste of Alex’s blood still metallic on his tongue. He looked in the rear view mirror and looked away, unable to meet his own bewildered eyes. “What the hell? An indigo aura?” Alex seemed to be a man who had his own secrets to keep.

A fireball streaked across the sky and Brock opened his door to stand with one foot on therunning board. The sky was full of meteors, shooting stars that shot across the midnight black sky. Ribbons of fire lit up the night, space rocks traveling billions of miles to burn up in the Earth’s atmosphere with only his eyes as witnesses to their deaths. It was glorious. Brock felt wetness on his cheeks as the shower dwindled and ended. He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand.

It was getting late and he had early chores in the morning. The repetition of his ranch work was soothing, easily predictable. No one had died on the Rogers’ ranch, there were no surprise spirits. Feed the livestock, check the irrigation lines, repair the fences. He didn’t need searing kisses underneath a midnight sky. He had a life. It was solid, it was honest and it was his. He didn’t need _passion. _

But he did need _answers. _Brock pulled his truck onto the deserted highway, did a three point turn and drove back towards Camp Two.

The radio crackled and screeched with static. Brock turned it off. His thoughts didn’t need the distraction of a soundtrack. Alex was the first person who seemed to know that something was fundamentally wrong with Brock. So it just made sense to confess his special burden, to finally tell someone about what he saw. Someone who wouldn’t think he was insane.

A spirit appeared in the middle of the highway. Long ragged dark hair, bare chest smeared with dirt and blood, clad in only a loincloth and shackles. _Hell of a way to die, buddy,_ Brock thought. He didn’t have time to waste, so he drove on through.

Something hit his truck with a thud. Shattered his headlight. Brock stomped on the brakes, parked his truck and grabbed his flashlight from the seat beside him. He ran back behind his truck, frantically looking in the barrow pits beside the highway.

_The first time I didn’t stop! The very first time I didn’t stop! _Brock climbed down into the ditch beside the road. _Please don’t be dead. Please!_ He didn’t want one of the faces he saw to be dead by his own stupid mistake, forever staring at him in silent accusation.

The stranger was a young man, fish belly white under all the dirt, blood and hair. Most of the blood seemed to be from cuts all over his torso. Shallow cuts formed symbols and words in a language that Brock couldn’t read and made his stomach clench when he tried. Shackles circled his wrists and ankles, broken chains dangled from the cuffs. Brock patted his face trying to rouse him, charcoal black paint circled the young man’s eyes. “Wake up buddy, come on wake up!”

The young man sat up, rigid and stiff, Brock yelped in surprise. His eyes shot open and Brock could see that his eyes were globes of _starlight_, just like Alex’s. Only instead of pinpricks of light, the young man’s eyes held entire _galaxies _and light streamed out from beneath his lids. “AS IT WAS FORETOLD.” He intoned and then collapsed into Brock’s arms.

“What? What was foretold?” Brock did his best to drag his new responsibility out of the ditch and into his truck. He grabbed the blanket that the dog liked to nap on from the truckbed and wrapped it around the young man’s shoulders. He took off his vest to cushion the strange man’s head.

Brock pondered his options. Wintersage didn’t have a doctor, but it did have a payphone. There was no county ambulance, it was too expensive for the hospital to buy, so that meant a state trooper or sheriff would have to drive up. They’d throw the guy into the drunk tank. The only hospital was a good hour away in Riverview, the county seat. “Looks like I’m driving you to the doctor, buddy.” Brock muttered. “Good thing I have a full tank of gas.”

“No doctors.” The young man declared, his voice thready with pain. `“No man of science can help this vessel now.”

“You’re not dying in my truck.” Brock stated, “I’m not letting you die anywhere I can see you. And I mean that.”

“This vessel cannot die.” The young man drew the threadbare blanket tight around his shoulders. “This vessel holds a _god_ now. This vessel feels _everything._”

“Oh good. Always nice to know when drugs are involved.” From their position in the lowland flats, Brock could see a trail of headlights coming from Camp Two. “Maybe Alex would know something about your eyes—“ The young man grasped his arm with sudden strength that made Brock’s eyes water.

“If you return this vessel to The Brotherhood, then you will see the spirits of all humanity roaming the Earth. Your world will end, Brock Rumlow. And you will know that you were responsible for the demise of humanity. This vessel must never be taken by The Brotherhood.” He sagged into sleep, his grip slackened.

_I never told him my name,_ Brock thought. Maybe this whole crazy night would look more same under the light of day. He glanced back at the steady stream of lights as he turned his truck towards home. ”Well, I’d really hate for the world to end on my account.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Brock pulled into the driveway of his trailer. His passenger hadn’t said another word after his outburst about Armageddon. If he hadn’t seen those galaxy-filled eyes Brock could have told himself that he was just helping out a stranded hitchhiker. But of course, everything had to be _weird. _

“Hey. Hey buddy. Time to wake up.” Brock lightly patted the stranger’s hand. “Wakey wakey.” The young man stirred in his sleep, but didn’t rouse. Brock patted a little firmer. “Come on buddy. Let’s get you a shower and a comfy couch.”

The stranger startled away from Brock’s touch and curled in upon himself with a clank of chains against the window of the truck. Fear widened eyes that were a muddy, utterly normal, blue underneath all that black makeup. “Where am I?”

“Ah. Finally a question I can answer.” Brock smiled and spoke to the skittish young man in the soothing tone he used with spooked horses and hard-laboring cows. “You’re in my truck. There was an accident and I hit you with my truck. Do you hurt anywhere?”

The young man spread his shackled hands and looked down at his body. His gaze alighted upon the carvings on his chest. A harsh whisper. “This hurts. All of this hurts. Why? Why is there pain?”

If only the shallow cuts hurt, then there was a good chance that the shackles had broken the headlight. “You’ve—“ Brock paused, he had no idea why someone had cut up the poor guy. He had more than just a suspicion about _who_ might have done it. “You’ve got cuts that need to be cleaned. If you come with me, I’ll get you a hot shower, some bandages and some clothes. Maybe some food if you can handle it. How does that sound?” Silence and a suspicious narrowing of brown eyes. “Let’s start with some names. I’m Brock. What’s your name buddy?”

The young man curled his hands into his matted rat tail hair.“My true name is unpronounceable by human tongues.” He made a gargling braying sound that made the hairs on the back of Brock’s neck stand on end. “This vessel had a name once. It does not matter. Nothing matters now. For I have filled this vessel and fulfilled the prophecy.”

“Let me give you a name for a while, you can choose your own whenever you feel like it. How about I call you Buddy?” A one shouldered shrug that made his shackle chains jingle. “First things first. We’re going to get those chains off of you. Would you like that?”

Buddy nodded and Brock got out of the truck. He walked to the passenger side and opened the door. “Go ahead, take my arm.” He was a little wobbly, like a newborn calf. He held out his arm for Buddy to steady himself. “Let’s take a little trip to my tool box.”

The rusty iron shackles were crude, but effective. There were odd symbols scratched into the metal and a shiny new padlock on each cuff. Brock dug out his bolt cutters and snipped off the locks. Buddy rubbed his skin where the cuffs had been. “Why did you free me, human?”

“Seemed like the right thing to do.” Brock put away his tools. “Sometimes that’s all you need.” He took a deep breath, swallowed back his impending dread. “Why do you call me _human?_”

“That is what you are.” Buddy looked at his dirty hands and sneered. “That is what this vessel is.”

Brock’s fingers curled around the handle of a hammer. “You keep saying that. Who is inside the vessel?” He’d made a terrible mistake, he should have just waited for Alex, he should have not gotten involved…

“I am a god.” Buddy snorted as he examined his broken fingernails. “Of course.”

“Of course.” Brock nodded as if that made any sense. “What are you a god of?”

Buddy smiled, a thin mean line. He spoke with increasing intensity, his voice raising as he announced, “One of the first gods. Ancient and terrible. A god of darkness and void. A god of unspeakable power and wrath! The One who brings the End Times!” The eerie effect was ruined by his loud stomach suddenly gurgling, he looked down at his body in confusion and disgust. “What was that human nonsense?”

“Hungry?” Brock asked, no longer quite as afraid as he had been. A warm place to sleep and food in the belly were the basic necessities of existence. 

“I have no need of human food.” Another stomach growl loudly betrayed his bluster and Buddy shook his ratty hair back from his face, clad only in his dignity and bloody rags. “Perhaps this vessel might be hungry, but I only hunger to devour the cosmos!”

“How about some canned chili instead?” Brock still took the hammer with him into the tiny kitchen. Buddy perched on the edge of his seat, as if he wasn’t quite sure how all his limbs worked. He watched Brock open the can and pour the chili into a small pan, his head cocked to the side in rapt silent fascination as if he had never seen the actions before. Once the chili bubbled, Brock poured a serving into a bowl and put a spoon in it. He gave it to the filthy young man.

Buddy stared at the chili in his hands in bewilderment and Brock took pity on him, he really was a blank slate. “This is a spoon.” He took the spoon, scooped up a portion of chili and held it to Buddy’s lips. “It’s hot, you need to blow on it or you’ll burn your mouth. But if you blow too hard, all the food will splatter out from the spoon.” Buddy pursed his lips and blew, his eyebrows knit in utter concentration. “Good. Now open your mouth.” Buddy obeyed and Brock put the spoon on his pink tongue. “Chew and swallow.” Buddy closed his eyes as he chewed, his face slack with pleasure.

“That— that is _good.” _He seized the spoon from Brock’s hands. “But this is inefficient. Why not pour the food into your mouths?”

Brock blinked as he thought about it, the late hour sinking into his bones. “It keeps your hands cleaner. I guess. Only babies eat with their hands.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Are you a baby?”

“I am not!” Buddy exclaimed around a mouthful of chili. He choked on a bean and hacked it up with a cough. “I am an omnipotent, omnipresent force that defies the constructs of your primitive society!”

“Those sure are a lot of big words. But you don’t know what a spoon is.”

Buddy frowned and his spoon clattered into the bowl. “There are certain _holes_ in my knowledge. This vessel was ill-prepared for my transference. I had to make certain alterations make it be fit for my occupation.” Buddy held out the bowl for more chili.

“What kind of alterations?” Brock poured the rest of the chili into the bowl.

Buddy wiggled his arm at Brock. “I had to grow another one of these. What’s the point of a vessel that isn’t symmetrical? It used more of my essence than I expected it to.” He frowned into his chili. “Big soft meat cages. That’s what you humans are.”

“Why do you need a vessel?” Brock rinsed the pan clean, the simple mundane action grounding him.

Buddy sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. “I was bound to this vessel by a necromancer who thought that he was doing a fantastic job, but was in fact, _mediocre_.” He spat the word out. “So now I’m trapped in this meat cage until I either escape it or I’m captured by the necromancer again. And if you love this little world, you do not want that to happen.” Buddy wrinkled his nose at the thought and then licked his spoon clean. “But chili is not bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I know it's a little weird.


	4. Chapter 4

Brock turned off the taps and tested the water temperature with his hand. He’d given up on getting any sleep, but this was nothing a pot of really black coffee couldn’t handle. He held up his bar of soap and picked a stray hair off of it. He’d never had anyone else stay over in his trailer. He used the same slow tone of voice that worked on particularly stubborn horses. “Okay, this is a bathtub. You step into the warm water and scrub off the dirt. This is soap. Rub that on your skin and it helps loosen the dirt.”

Buddy nodded. “You are not attempting to cook me in the water.”

“It’s not hot enough to make soup out of you.” Brock stuck his hand in the bath water. “See? Just trust me. It will feel good. I promise.”

Buddy squinted at him from beneath his filthy hair. “Breaking a promise to a god is punishable by divine retribution.”

Brock sat on the toilet lid and sighed. “I’m sure it is.”

Buddy glanced at the warm water, chewed on his lip and then spread his arms wide, dropping the dog blanket. He threw back his head and announced in an imperious tone, “Undress me.”

“I just met you—“ Brock began, but he shook his head in resignation. He pulled at the edge of the rough woven loincloth and it fell to the bathroom floor. Strange sigils and pictographs writhed over Buddy’s newly exposed skin, written in what looked like ink and blood, even drawn on his all too human flaccid cock. Brock pointed at the bathtub. “Please get in the bathtub.”

The self-proclaimed deity stepped into the water and sat down with a groan of pleasure that made Brock smile. Buddy demanded, “Bathe me human.” Brock gave up arguing and grabbed a washrag. It was easier to just suds up the guy and have the whole odd situation resolved. It couldn’t be any more difficult than washing the cow dogs after they rolled in roadkill. 

“Do you remember where you came from?”As soon as he returned Buddy to his home, the sooner Brock could return to his comfortable routine.

Buddy squinted, the black makeup around his eyes melting into streams down his cheeks. “It was so dark and so cold. A cold that I could feel even without a corporal form. It was quiet. Too quiet. No prayers from devoted followers, no worship or praise from my army of warrior-priests.” He stared at his hands, at the broken nails and long fingers. “After far too long, I heard voices. Voices that chanted my name. My true name. They summoned me into this vessel.”

“The Brotherhood summoned you?” Buddy nodded as Brock gingerly examined the cuts upon his chest. Under the grime of clotted blood and sooty ink was soft, smooth skin. Brock looked down at the bloodstained dog blanket on the bathroom floor. “So what happened to all the cuts on your chest?”

Buddy shrugged. “They were annoying. I do not like to be bothered with something as inconvenient as pain.”

“You _healed_ yourself.” Why was that surprising after everything that had happened in the last few hours? “You grew a new arm and healed all your cuts?”

“Obviously.” Buddy rolled his eyes. “I may be stuffed in this meat cage, but I will return to my rightful place in the cosmos.” He sighed. “The Brotherhood has no desire to worship me. They wish to exploit me.”

“Well if you’re a god, can’t you stop that?”

“If I was at full power and not bound to a corpse, of course I could.” He slapped at the water, splashing Brock. “I really despise necromancers. Only the gods should have power over life and death.” He lifted his arms to give better access to his sides and scowled.

“So Alex is a necromancer? What is that?” Of course any man who approached Brock so boldly would have to be off his rocker.

“You know the necromancer’s name?” Buddy grabbed Brock’s wrist, causing him to drop the washcloth. “Explain how you know the mage who consorts with reanimating and controlling the dead!”

“Ow! We just met tonight. He rents property from my boss and I went to go check on the situation. That’s all.” Nobody needed to know about the kiss. It was better to forget about that. “I was— on my way home when I hit you with my truck.”

Buddy raised an eyebrow, as if he could see the lies of omission written on Brock’s skin like tattoos and then he grunted in resignation. “Very well. You may continue scrubbing.”

“Well, thanks a lot.” Brock rubbed his wrist.

“Yes.” Buddy relaxed back into the tub, oblivious to sarcasm.

Brock scrubbed Buddy’s skin until the water was ink black with filth, a greasy rainbow film shimmering on the surface. “There’s too many wrinkles and folds in this vessel’s skin. It is impractical.” Buddy complained as Brock worked shampoo into his hair. 

“It’s just a part of being human, I guess. Close your eyes. Hold your breath.” Brock rinsed the shampoo out with the handheld shower attachment.

Buddy sputtered, “As I keep telling you, I am— _not_— human, Brock Rumlow.”

“Now how did you know my name? Is that one of your god powers? You know people’s names but you don’t know what a spoon is? Stand up, I have to drain the tub and give you another rinse off.”

Gooseflesh prickled upon Buddy’s arms as he stood sopping wet in the bathtub. “Your name is written upon your soul, everyone knows that. Yours is right here.” He pointed at Brock’s heart. “Just below the gold ribbon in your aura. You have an interesting aura, for a mortal.” He cocked his head to the side. “Indigo and grey.”

“You’re the second person who has told me about auras tonight. I didn’t even know I had one.” Seems like there were a lot of things that he didn’t know about like ancient gods, possessed corpses and death magicians. Made seeing dead people seem a little small and inconsequential.

“You cannot see auras?”

“Nope.”

“I pity you. It must be like wandering half blind in this world.”

With a bit of pettiness, Brock turned the showerhead on without warning and Buddy shrieked. “Oh, sorry. It takes a moment to warm up.”

Brock helped Buddy from the slippery bathtub and wrapped a threadbare towel around his hips. Buddy’s eyes were human and very blue in the mirror as Brock vigorously towel dried his hair. He reached up and touched the center of Brock’s forehead, a tiny spark of static electricity sparking out from his fingertip.

“Ow!” Brock rubbed at the tingling spot. “What was that for?”

A small smug smile. “I sanctified you. You are my priest now. Now we are bound and you will serve me until I regain my full power. Of course your sacrifice will be rewarded.”

_Oh no._ “Um, I’m not really a religious man.” Brock swallowed back his dread. “I’m just a cowboy. A hired hand. I’m sure you could find someone better suited to servicing you—“

Buddy seemed to loom above him, even though they were the same height. He radiated a strange power that Brock felt in the corners of his soul. Blue eyes flickered with galaxy-glaze and his hair flew back as if wind-blown. Buddy intoned, his voice rattling off the tiled walls and shaking the foundations, “You are _mine. _And I do not make mistakes.”

_That makes _one _of us, _Brock thought. He sank to his knees, next to the bloodstained dog blanket, in shocked awe. “Holy shit.” Buddy reached out and patted his head with a benevolent smile.

“An excellent prayer, my priest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments. I had series of severe health issues and your comments really inspired me to return to my writing.


	5. Chapter 5

Brock’s eyes flew open and he sat up on his couch at the sound of a fist pounding on his trailer door. “Brock!” Peggy hollered from outside. He looked over at the clock above his television set.

_Shit!_ He didn’t even remember going to sleep, must have passed out in his jeans. “I’ll be right there Peg! Just let me find a shirt.” He grabbed a flannel from the floor and opened the door.

“I thought you might be sick or something. You never miss breakfast.” Peggy stepped into the trailer with a plate covered in tinfoil in her hands. “Here. I saved you some.”

Brock took the plate with gratitude, the warm savory scent of eggs and bacon made his stomach growl. “Thanks Peg. I’m sorry, I guess I had the craziest dreams last night.” He snorted at his own folly, “You would not believe how real they seemed.” He walked over to get a fork and saw the empty can of chili sitting on the counter next to the stove. His voice trailed off as he rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “So real.”

“Your headlight is busted.” _Oh no._

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Hit a deer.” 

Peggy shrugged. “At least you didn’t wipe out a whole herd like I did that one time. Cried like a baby. Stupid suicidal things. Steve’s off to the auction to check out some new bulls. Seems to think that we’ve got room in the budget for some new stud stock.” Peggy sat down at the kitchen counter. “Always a good thing to get some new, young blood in this valley.” She tapped her fingers on the counter.

“Is this the part where you talk to me about settling down again or are we still talking about cattle?” He threw the chili can into the garbage and sat down across from Peggy with his plate of eggs.

“I’m more reliable than that alarm clock of yours. All the valley kids are growing up and moving away. Soon there won’t be any families left here.” Peggy smiled wistfully. “Sorry. I just regret that Steve and I never managed to have kids. So we just kept hiring buckaroos and feeding them until one of them stayed. Stray cats and cowboys.” She patted his hand fondly, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling.

“Oh I’m not going anywhere Peg.” Brock promised. He was safe on the Lazy 8. Safe and comfortable. “Nowhere else fits me as well as this place. And you make the best eggs. You know I was thinking that I should go through the woodshed and— ” 

“Brock? Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” Peggy looked over his shoulder with intense curiosity. Brock turned as he followed her gaze. Buddy was wearing his sweatpants, slung low on his narrow hips and a threadbare white t-shirt from the ragbag. Long soft wavy hair tucked behind his ear. Eyes ringed with shadow. He looked sleepy and rumpled, as if he’d been kept up late in Brock’s bedroom_. _

So it wasn’t a dream. God damn it. It wasn’t a dream. Brock continued eating his eggs, even though they were suddenly tasteless in his mouth. This did not look good. Keep it simple, he was a cousin-? No! God no. She knew all of Brock’s estranged family and from the disapproving slant of her brows, she knew about his wide and varied personal tastes in bed partners too. “That’s Buddy. One of my mom’s friend’s kids. He hitched a ride out this way. Buddy, this is my boss lady, Peggy.”

“Pleased to meet you Buddy. Brock never mentioned having a guest. Have you been here long?” Peggy leaned forward in her seat, clearly not believing a word that Brock said.

“I just got here last night.” Buddy hid behind his hair. “Long trip.”

“Uh huh. If I’d know you had company I would have brought more eggs.” Peggy regarded Brock with a raised eyebrow and steely eyes. “Brock, if you could be a dear and walk me out to my truck.”

“Yes ma’am.” Oh she was going to know everything just by looking at him. She’d know about the crazy god shit, the necromancer thing, the kiss by the pump house, that he could see dead folks…

“Miss Peggy?” Buddy began and stopped, clutching the thin t-shirt fabric tight against his chest. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Peggy stopped, turned towards Buddy and looked at him, her eyes softer as she listened. “My folks don’t want me. No one wants me. I’m all alone. Brock was the only person who answered his phone and didn’t hang up. I— I can leave. I’ll be fine.” His voice hitched up as he walked past them towards the door. For a moment Brock thought that he’d be free of the madness of gods, then Peggy stepped forward and took Buddy’s hands. She looked at his fingers as if making a verdict.

“Calluses and a tan on one hand, baby smooth and pale on the other.”

“Dad broke my arm.” Buddy sniffled, eyes glimmering with hard-held back tears. “Had to do everything one-handed for a while. I’m better— now.”

“There’s always room at our table for one more set of hard-working hands. There’s always work to be done around here. We run a clean place, no drugs, no drinking. Now sit down and eat the rest of Brock’s breakfast.” She bustled Buddy over to the plate and watched as hechewed a strip of bacon, one artful teardrop streaking down his cheek. Peggy turned back to a stunned Brock.“You’re responsible for him. We can’t pay much, but we’ll do our best. Room, board. Just like what you get. Don’t make me regret this Brock.” Buddy smiled at him from behind her, a grin from ear to ear at his own cleverness.

Peggy’s truck door slammed and Brock glared at Buddy as she drove away. Buddy licked his fork clean of bacon grease, holding Brock’s gaze.

“What the hell was that?” Brock demanded. “Last night you didn’t even know what a _spoon_ was!”

Buddy snapped his fingers and the television flicked on. “You were asleep. I was bored. So I researched humanity, the morning news showed that you are all still consumed by endless wars and pettiness. I will fix all of you. When you all worship at my altar, there will be peace.” He snapped his fingers and the television clicked off.

“I watched something called a _soap opera _as well_._ Very informative, it made me think about what I want from your devotions. Now my priest, it is time for your morning praises and salutations. For I am starving.” He leaned back in the chair, spread his legs wide. “Worship me.” The blatant hunger on his sweet corpse face was terrible.

Blood flushed Brock’s cheeks and he looked away. “That’s not—“ Brock began to argue and gave up. He whispered, “There’s chores to be done.”

Buddy crooked his finger at Brock, beckoning him closer with wet, shiny lips. “But I’m _bored._” He dragged his fingertip up and down the gap of Brock’s flannel, tracing the skin. “I’m such a vengeful god when I’m neglected. There’s famine. There’s plague. A whole host of woes that could befall this world. Perhaps just a small corner of it _right here_._” _Buddy hooked his finger into the waistband of Brock’s jeans and roughly yanked him between the bracket of his thighs. “There’s so much I could do, this world is ripe with possibilities. Perhaps we should go kill the necromancer. Would you like to do that with me? I could pluck out his eyes and listen to him pray for his life.” His eyes gleamed with red tinged galaxy-light. “There’s so many ways to get prayers.”

Alex didn’t deserve that. No one did. If he had to make Buddy feel worshipped to keep other people safe, then he could swallow his pride. “Oh great merciful god, I pray to you. Accept my prayers.” He bowed his head and got down on his knees. “I’m new at being a priest. Be patient with me. And let me show you how to work the VCR. A humble offering.”

Buddy carded his fingers through Brock’s hair, wrapping the strands around them and tugging, petting his frightened dog. “I find your prayers acceptable. But next time, find a better use for your mouth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear... this doesn't seem to be going well for Brock... I wonder who he can talk to...


	6. Chapter 6

“And now what you’ve all been waiting for, bull riding!” Brock adjusted his gloves and tried to breath, adrenaline pulsing through his veins. “Twelve hundred pounds of bucking bull in the chutes just ready to blast out here in the arena!” Yep. He was going to sit on that white Brahma bull, grip the rope, stay the fuck on until the buzzer. Yep. He was going to do this. It wasn’t even about the prize money, he wanted to be out there in front of the crowd. He’d show everyone what he could do. And then he’d go professional and see some of those big cities, some of those places he’d seen in magazines and television. He wouldn’t be stuck here.

“And now a moment to remember the late Buster Ferguson, our favorite rodeo clown, who passed last year in this very arena saving a rider from a bull.” He’d known Buster, nice guy. Liked to share his beers. “Now watch gate number three! In that gate is a bull named Greased Dynamite and he’s got a reputation as a nasty one! Riding Greased Dynamite is a local boy, eighteen year old Brock Rumlow. Let’s hear some cheers for the local boy!”

Cheers. Those cheers were for him. Those cheers were the last thing he could remember after he woke up in the dirt. Cowboys crowded around him as the volunteer firefighters grabbed a gurney and a neck collar. Buster Ferguson stood over him, missing a huge chunk of skull from where a bull stomp had pulverized it. Buster shook his head at Brock and Brock saw clumps of brain fall out. He started screaming and didn’t stop until they sedated him.

It was worse in the hospital where so many people had died. That’s when he started drinking. It didn’t help. Steve and Peggy took pity on him, dried him out and saved his life. The solitude of the valley helped salvage his mind. He grew to love this place. He’d do anything to protect it…

One of the orphan spring calves, the bummer calves, knocked him out of his memories with a head toss to his gut. They were hungry and he was late. “I’m sorry. I know you want your breakfast.” He let the two calves into the barn with the dairy cow, Betty. They always had a dairy cow to feed the calves that were abandoned by their mothers. Betty was a beautiful fawn colored Guernsey and she’d raised more calves than Brock could count on both hands.

“Betty, I’m going to tell you something and you better not laugh.” The bell around Betty’s neck softly clanked. “I think I’m in a shitload of trouble. There’s a magical _god_ in my trailer watching movies and I think he wants to take over the world. He’s powerful and strange and just plain _mean._” Betty snuffled in the hay manger, unconcerned with Armageddon. “He says I’m his priest, but I think that’s just a fancy word for _slave_. He’s getting stronger, _so fast. _I don’t want to have anything to do with any of this, but I don’t know who I can talk to—“

Brock sat down on the milking stool, his knees weak with sudden realization. He did know someone. He knew the guy who had started this whole mess. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin and his fingers strayed up to his lips. He stood up and patted Betty on the flank. “Good talk Betty. Good talk.”

He drove to Camp Two on the backroads, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him with his speed. If Buddy said that someone was bad news, then there seemed to be a good chance he was lying. He knocked on the door and Jasper answered. He was wearing dark glasses and a dirty bathrobe over ratty boxers. “Fucking hangover.” He squinted against the sun. “And what the hell do you want?” 

Brock raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t the only one who had had a rough night. “I want to speak to Alex.”

Jasper shrugged and hooked his thumb towards the willow bushes. “He’s fucked off down to the creek.” He grumbled as the screen door slammed behind him, “Hail the Brotherhood, I guess. Whatever.” 

Willows grew in dense patches along the low creek bed, shading the shoals and smooth pebbled banks. Grasshoppers sang in the tall grass and Brock glanced around for rattlesnakes out of habit.

Alex was lounging on the grassy bank of the creek in the dappled shade, wearing the same clothes as the night before. His once pristine shirt was unbuttoned and sweat stained. His jeans were rolled up around his knees. He kicked at the water and took a swig from a mostly empty small bottle of cheap bourbon. Brock coughed to catch his attention and Alex tilted back his head, looking him up and down. “Oh. You’re real after all. _Nice_.”

Brock made his way down the creek bank. He sat down next to Alex and pulled off his boots and socks. The cool creek water licked at his toes. It felt nice to not think about spirits and gods for a moment. Alex offered him a swig off the bottle and Brock shook his head. “Not much of a drinker these days.”

Alex nodded and looked down at his feet. “Neither am I.” Dark circles surrounded his eyes. “I’m just drinking to forget that miserable shit-stain of a ritual I performed last night.”

“What ritual?” Brock prompted, a hot flush on his cheeks as he looked at the bare skin and spare dusting of golden chest hair that trailed down Alex’s firm abdomen and disappeared beneath his unbuttoned pants.

“Reanimating a corpse. I’m a necromancer. A mage that plays with the dead.” He glanced at Brock from under his lashes, gauging his reaction. When Brock didn’t flinch, he continued, “It’s kind of a family business. I’m the seventh son of a seventh son and my grandfather was the real deal. He’s legendary in occult circles. But I’m sure you’ve never heard of him because of the whole_ don’t mess with the dead_ taboo thing.”

“Anyways, he was driving up this way decades ago and he found a fresh body on the road. Maybe he ran the guy off the road. Who knows. He was an asshole. It was written in the stars that this body he acquired was a perfect holy vessel. One of those things you might see once in a generation. He sealed it up in an occult coffin, it’s like—“ Alex paused and gestured in the air with his free hand. “Mystical corpse preservation Tupperware. It got passed down from him to my dad and then to me. Lucky me.” He scrunched up his face in disgust.

“What did the body look like?” Brock asked as he wound a long strand of grass about his finger, turning the tip corpse pale. Pale as Buddy’s skin beneath the ink and blood.

“I dunno. Never saw it.” Alex shrugged and sighed in exasperation, his shirt slipping off his shoulder. A trail of delicate sooty symbols were tattooed on his ribs, black ink calligraphy. “You can’t just open an occult coffin before the right time. Just trust me, it just isn’t done. So I got these true believers together to help me out. _The Brotherhood_.” He splashed his foot in the water. “I stole the name from a gay bar in San Francisco. So we prepped and prepared and finally did the ritual and the coffin opened and POOF!” Alex laid back in the grass and buzzed his lips in disappointment and irritation. “No body. It vanished. Just like all my _loyal _acolytes.”

“They vanished too?” Brock’s eyes widened.

“No no no. They hopped in their cars and fucked off. Yelled at me for _wasting their time._ Well I’m sorry, maybe the mysteries of the occult arts can be a little bit of a letdown. Bitchy bastards.” Another swig emptied the bottle and Alex tossed it aside. “Jasper stayed because he’s got a weird crush on me and I am _not_ into bald dudes. I suppose I can go back to the wild and exciting world of tax preparation or I can drown myself in this shallow creek.” He looked despondent, his face soft with sadness and regret.

“Please don’t do that.” Brock put his hand on Alex’s shoulder. He was warm, so warm. The dappled sun shone on his blonde hair, making it glow.

Alex closed his eyes at the small touch. “Even after learning all this garbage about me, you say that like you mean it.”

“I do. There’s nothing more precious than the life we have, even if it’s not what we hoped it would be. This is all we have, trust me about that.”

Alex pressed his hand to Brock’s, holding it against his arm. “I owe you an apology. For what I did. Kissing you. I was so, _so_ high on these exotic mushrooms that I had to take for the ritual and I felt invincible. Like I could take anything I wanted. And you showed up looking like a wet dream from a cigarette ad. So I took what I wanted. And I’m sorry about that.” A lopsided smile and a tilt of his head made Brock’s chest lurch. “But it was a pretty great kiss, wasn’t it?” Brock nodded, his cheeks flushed red. Alex smirked in satisfaction. “I knew it.”

Heat prickled on the back of Brock’s neck. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“It feels good to talk to someone who hasn’t heard about my family’s legendary reputation. You’ve got no comparison, so maybe I won’t disappoint you as badly as I have disappointed everyone else.” Alex interlaced their fingers and studied Brock’s hand as if he could discover one of the great mysteries of the universe there. “Also you kissed me back, I felt tongue. I’m pretty sure they still shoot people around here for being a homosexual, obviously you can keep a secret. I’m not too worried about you blabbing about my misadventures in the mystical black arts. I’m a shitty necromancer, but I’m still a good kisser. I’ll take that.”

“So all that talk about auras was bullshit?”

“Auras? I’ve been able to see auras since I was a kid. Freaked me the hell out when I suddenly saw rainbows around everyone. Can’t really make a living seeing auras unless you’re a fortune teller. Can you see me wearing a turban? But seeing auras does make me a pretty good judge of character. Which is probably why I’m spilling my guts to you, couldn’t possibly be this cheap rotgut loosening my lips.” Blue eyes rimmed with red-fatigue raked over Brock as his thumb stroked the underside of Brock’s palm. “You do have a fabulous aura. If you ever let go of one of those big secrets you’re hiding, it would be explosively beautiful. One of those once in a generation auras.”

“What if the secret is that I’m a terrible person?”

“Bullshit. It would show up in your aura like a canker sore. You’re not a terrible person, not with that gold ribbon tied around your neck like a metaphysical noose. Indigo blue is so strong around your eyes, the things you must be able to see. It must suck to be you sometimes.” Alex was close enough for Brock to smell the booze on his breath. “Since I’m confessing all my sins to you, do you mind if I confess one more?”

Brock nodded, unable to trust his voice. Alex murmured against his ear, “I have been celibate for the past six months and I would really, really like to suck your dick.” Brock’s mouth fell open and he gasped. A low urgent heat curled in his groin as Alex dragged his fingernail up against the zipper of Brock’s jeans. This wasn’t the quick anonymous sex that he usually indulged in. 

“Is that a yes?” Alex licked his lips and Brock closed the distance, catching his mouth with his own. A whimper escaped him and Alex swallowed it down, greedy for the taste of his pleasure.

Alex hopped down into the creek and pulled Brock forward on the bank by his thighs. Brock’s legs dangled over the edge of the creek bank and Alex smiled up at him with clear _human _eyes. “You kiss like a starving man,” He deftly undid Brock’s jeans and shuffled them down his hips. Brock would remember Alex’s groan of satisfaction at the first taste of his cock until his dying day.

Brock fell back on his elbows, his head tipping back and his hat falling to the ground as he surrendered to the necromancer’s clever and voracious tongue. He was so beautiful, even while gagging himself on Brock’s cock in some sort of self-punishment. It had been too long since anyone had lavished him with such attention and Brock juddered through an orgasm that left him panting and breathless. Alex swallowed, his throat clenching down as he fought the urge to breath.

Brock ran his work-hardened fingers through Alex’s hair and cradled his cheek in his palm. Alex leaned into the gentle touch, his lashes fluttering and damp with tears. A string of saliva stretched and broke from his lips to the tip of Brock’s cock as he pulled back. Alex gazed at Brock as he stripped his own erection with brutal strokes. He came in his hand and rinsed his palm off in the creek. “I cannot believe I was fucking celibate for six fucking months. Thanks for the assist.” He splashed about, his feet covered in creek mud.

“I can see the spirits of dead people!” Brock blurted out the secret that had defined and enslaved his life. He had just confessed his deepest flaw with his dick out, soft on his thigh.

Alex scrambled out of the creek and sat beside him. “Huh. Your aura makes sense now.” He laid back on the grass and interlaced his fingers behind his head, looking up at the trees. 

“You’re not creeped out?” Relief and confusion warred within him.

Alex spat into the grass and tapped on his own chest. “Failed necromancer, remember? My whole life has been different shades of creepy. My mom was like you, she could feel spirits. But she couldn’t see their corporal forms. What’s it like being a true medium?” Brock shook his head, stricken dumb by Alex’s casual acceptance of his ability. “That’s the word for people with your gift. Mediums bridge the gap between the living and the dead, you’re in the _middle. _Mediums communicate with the dead and translate it for the living.”

“They try to communicate with me and they can’t talk so it’s like the world’s worst game of charades. Every time I go to town, I’m not sure if I’m talking to a spirit or a living person. And I’m pretty sure my neighbor murdered her mother and I can’t do a damn thing about it!” He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, tears welling up in frustration. “This _gift_ has ruined my life! Why are you smiling at me?”

The softest smile upon the loveliest lips. “Your aura changed. There’s still a shitload of grey but now there’s green like the first spring grass and — oh I’m very flattered, there’s red, throbbing crimson. Like heart’s blood. I like you too Brock. I told you, I’m a good judge of character. It feels good to talk to you, makes me feel like less of a fraud. Less of a liar.”

Alex wasn’t a liar, but Brock hadn’t yet disclosed the real reason for his visit. “What were you trying to do with the ritual?”

“Oh, the basics. Raising a corpse by trapping a spirit inside it, then asking the spirit for our heart’s desires before releasing the trap. Shaking down the afterlife for fun and profit. But that went tits up. Probably good that it did, I thought I knew what I wanted but now I’m not so sure.” He stared up at the willow canopy, lost in thought.

“What was your wish?” Brock wanted to know.

Alex paused and then looked away from Brock. “I wanted to be better than my grandfather. I wanted the power to make my own way in the world. It’s pretty lonely when your family business could get you burned at the stake.”

Brock took a moment to pull up his jeans, tucked himself away. He took a deep breath and said, “Maybe you already are. Better than your grandfather at this.”

“At sucking dick, maybe.” Alex barked a sharp bitter laugh.

“What if your ritual didn’t fail? What if the corpse was running around somewhere?”

“It couldn’t. Not a with simple vessel possession. They’re supposed to be barely able to communicate, let alone run around.”

“What could do that?” Brock prompted. “What could make a corpse walk and talk and learn?” What was in his trailer watching rental tapes on his VCR player? Alex sat up and regarded Brock with a curious tilt to his head.

“These are awfully specific questions, Brock. An angel. Or more likely, a demon. Demons like fucking with humans.”

_No. No. No. _“Would they be like a god?”

“Every culture has a pantheon of benevolent and destructive essences that dictate the whims of the universe. One culture’s god is another culture’s demon. What classifies the essence of the spirit is whether or not they have the mandate to create or destroy. Sometimes they would rather destroy everything to create something new. I’d call that a demon.”

“Your ritual didn’t fail, Alex.”

Alex blinked at him in stupefied wonder. “Your aura changed again. The grey is disappearing—”

Brock grabbed him by his shirt, forced Alex to look in his eyes. “You summoned _a_ _goddamned god_. A fucking deity! I hit him with my truck and took him back to my trailer because I’m a very stupid man. And I need your help because he’s not a good god, he’s the other kind. He’s claimed me as his priest and it scares the shit out of me!”

“The ritual didn’t fail?” Alex stammered as he processed Brock’s confession. Brock held his breath. It was going to be okay. Alex had all the answers. He’d fix all of it. Soon it would all be a bad dream—

Alex threw up his arms in triumph and yelled at the sky, “Fuck you Grandpa!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra long chapter because I think I have a crush on a necromancer...  
Please tell me if you like this!


	7. Chapter 7

Brock and Alex sat at the kitchen table as Jasper begrudgingly poured everyone a cup of coffee. He sat down with a huff, wrapping his bathrobe around himself. “You were out there a long time, _Alex._” He glared at Brock.

“Thank you for the coffee, Jasper. Although I’m not sure that there’s coffee strong enough to power through this conversation.” Alex took a sip and then added four sugar cubes. “I’m probably sober enough by now. Probably.”

Jasper propped his chin on his hand and sighed. “What did you do this time? We don’t have any funds left for bail money, just letting you know.”

“The ritual didn’t fail.” Alex got up to get a spoon to stir his coffee. A grin pulled at the sides of his lips and he schooled his expression into a blank mask of serenity.

“Of course it did.” Jasper pushed his sunglasses up upon his head. “Otherwise I’d be purchasing a private island. Wasn’t that the whole point of all the fasting and the celibacy? I’m still so pissed at you for that.”

“You didn’t summon a spirit. You summoned a god.” Brock blurted out, the urgency of the situation loosening his tongue. “I need your help to send him back.”

“Wait— what? Alex who is this guy? I mean besides the guy you made out with the night of the ritual. Yeah I saw that. And I bet that’s what fucked up the ritual. You just _had_ to get horny.” Jasper looked Brock up and down with a squint. “He’s still got manure on his boots.”

“I’m the guy who hit the deity that you folks summoned with my truck and took him back to my place! He grew back his own damn arm!” Jasper looked at him blankly and Brock gritted out of pure frustration, “You gotta help me get him out of my trailer. I don’t like the way he looks at me when he makes me kneel. It’s like he’s hungry to devour the whole damn world!” How could he make them understand?

“Is this some weird sex thing, Alex?” Jasper scrunched up his face. “He’s cute but he’s a little cuckoo crazy.”

“You’re a bunch of necromancers and you’re calling me crazy?” Brock hit the table with his fist, jostling the coffee cups. “I’m desparate for help to fix the mess you guys made! We have to send Buddy back!”

“Jasper. He’s telling the truth. His aura confirms it. Has my ability to see auras and ley-lines ever been false?” Alex spoke in the slow measured tones of a leader, there was none of the candid insecurity that Brock had witnessed down by the creek. Jasper shook his head, but he still wasn’t convinced. Alex took a sip of his coffee and then tilted his head to the side in puzzlement. “The god’s name is _Buddy_?”

“His real name sounded like he was gargling broken glass shards. He’s not one of those love thy neighbor, peace and harmony types of god either. He’s dangerous. He made me his _priest_ and I don’t think he’s likely to let me leave his little church. How do you get rid of a god?”

“You can’t.” Alex held up his hand and drained his entire cup of coffee. “Could I get another fill up, Jasper? Thank you.” 

Brock’s mouth fell open and his hope plummeted into the bottom of his stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Gods by definition are eternal. They’re created and sustained by human belief and spiritual energy. The more worshippers a god has then the more powerful they become. They have the ability to transform belief into reality molding. Theoretically.” Alex shrugged with one shoulder.

“_Theoretically_?” Brock fought back his rising panic.

“Believe it or not there’s no community college courses on this stuff. It’s all theory and instinct. Lots of old books and drug trips. And of course, experimentation through generations of mages.”

“So you can’t help me.” Brock put his hat back on and stood up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Wait, wait.” Jasper grabbed a pad of paper and began furiously scribbling. “What if we summoned the link binding the corpse to the possessing entity? Like a classic exorcism.” He pointed at his scribbles and Alex nodded, growing more animated with each squiggle. “All you’d need from the god-host would be the three basics…”

“An old priest, a young priest and a Bible?” Brock asked, getting more lost by the moment. Jasper raised an eyebrow at him. “I watched that movie once.”

“Ha! He’s funny.” Jasper rolled his eyes. “Semen, blood and hair. The basics of the necromantic triangle. The samples don’t even have to be fresh.”

“Like a blood-stained dog blanket? And a dirty hairbrush?” Brock ventured, a faint glimmer of hope returning.

Jasper tapped his pencil on the table as he thought. “That’s awfully specific, but yes. That would work for the blood and hair. But the samples have to gathered and blessed by a priest of pure heart and intent. And I’ve never met a _good_ priest, let alone one of pure heart and intent. We don’t really travel in the same social circles. Good luck getting that semen sample without violating the tenets of just about every damn religion out there.”

Alex ran his tongue over his lower lip and set down his coffee mug. “The ritual doesn’t specific what religion the priest must belong to. Haven’t you been recently consecrated and ordained Brock?” Brock blinked in surprise and Alex smiled with blowjob-chapped lips. “You’d look great in a cassock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that absolutely nothing was researched for this fic. If you're a necromancer, please accept my sincere apology.


	8. Chapter 8

“I refuse.” Jasper crossed his arms. “There’s no way I’m going. I’ve written the ritual down for you in simple words and gathered the magical regents to mix with the host-body samples, but that’s all I’m doing.” He tossed the purple velvet liquor bottle bag at Alex and Alex snagged it out of the air. “Raising the dead was fun, but this is too dangerous and crazy for me. Good luck, I guess.” He turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

Alex sighed and shrugged in apology. “So are you ready to go send your own personal god back to whence they came, Father Brock?” Alex’s cheerful bravado was a bit brittle around the edges, but Brock appreciated the effort.

“How could I possibly be prepared to do that?” Brock got into his truck and Alex climbed in beside him. “I’ve spent more time in barns than in a church.”

“And millions of people believe that their savior was born in a barn, so that’s not much of an argument.” Alex glanced at the shotgun wedged behind the benchseat. “You know how to use that thing?”

“Yes.” Brock replied. “I don’t want to use it.”

Alex nodded, rolling the purple velvet bag in his hands. “There’s another option, you know. You could just do whatever Buddy wants you to do. Submit to his will and help him. I’m sure you’d earn power and prestige. Eventually you’d be elevated and worshipped as his first priest. That’s usually how religions work.”

The idea made Brock physically ill. “No.” Brock spat bile out his open window. “He doesn’t care about anyone but himself and I can’t be a part of that.”

“Really? I thought that you were alone, ostracized by your ability to see the spirits of the dead. You couldn’t even go town without confusing the living with the dead. Why do you care about this place?” It wasn’t malicious curiosity, Alex’s face was open and guileless.

Why did he care about this valley? “The stars. You can always see the stars here.”

“There’s always stars up there, Brock. What else?”

“There’s snow up on the Rim even in summer.” Brock pointed out his windshield at the looming mountain that overshadowed the valley floor. “When it rains, the ground explodes in tiny flowers that look like snow drifts. And there’s my bosses. I did a lot of drinking after my bull-riding accident and they dried me out. Gave me a home. Never batted an eye at me in judgement in ten years.” Brock chewed on his lower lip, nerves jangling with anxiety. “They wouldn’t submit to Buddy. They’d die first. I just want to protect this place. The people in it. Someone has to.”

“A humble, honest beauty.” Alex looked at him with soft eyes and a softer smile. Brock felt heat rise in his cheeks. “I bet that Buddy got a taste of your potential power and wanted to keep you all to himself. Buddy fucked up. He consecrated a good man as his priest.” Alex looked out the window at the flat sagebrush covered plains. “That’s why this whole plan just might work.” He tapped his fingers on the seat cover.

The fate of the world depended on whether or not he was a _good_ man. Oh no pressure there. None at all. “What do you mean by ‘potential power’?”

Alex gestured out the window at the surrounding land. ”There is so much power lurking under the ground. Ancient, primordial power. Many ancient people believed that volcanos were the lairs of gods of creation and destruction. We sleep above the graves of volcanos. “ 

"You told me that last night." Brock tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “You said that you were going to summon something ancient to remake the world. Guess you followed through with that.” 

Alex winced and inhaled sharply through his gritted teeth. ”Did I? I was probably trying to impress you. _Fuck. _Intent means a lot when casting magic. I talk a lot of grandiose crap when I'm high as a kite on the sacred mushrooms. My family gave me a lot of shit about it when we performed rituals together."

“You tried to raise the dead as a family?" 

"Well yeah. It was a big deal in our family, kind of like that other holiday that celebrates raising the dead." Alex grinned. "Easter."

Brock groaned, ”We're going to exorcise a god and you're cracking jokes?"

"It's how I deal with stress. There's a lot of pressure to be the best of the best when you're a seventh son of a seventh son. Especially from my mom. She put a lot of work into fulfilling that prophecy. I've got eight brothers and sisters and most of them are as psychically attuned as a doorknob." Alex paused his nervous chatter as he looked over the ritual. He swallowed hard and continued, "Mom would really like you. I mean, not just because you're gorgeous. A wild True Medium, just bursting with psychic potential. You'll have to hold her hands through so many séances." 

"I've known you for less than a day and you want me to meet your parents?" Of all the crazy things that had happened in the last forty-eight hours, that was one of the hardest for Brock to wrap his head around. 

"Well, yeah! If there's one thing necromancy has taught me, it is that there's a finite amount of time we have on this plane. Oh and that cremation is a really good idea if you don't want to be the centerpiece at one of my family's holiday gatherings." Alex forced a laugh. “I’m mostly joking about that.“

It seemed like they both had people to protect. It was so easy to talk to Alex with his easy charisma and his encyclopedic knowledge of the crazy arcane world. Brock let himself confess things that he’d spoken aloud before. They’d probably be dead soon anyways. “I don't know where my mom is. She moves around. I'm an only child, as far as I am aware. People said that she was crazy. I guess it just took a head injury and now I am too."

"You're not crazy, Brock. You’re blessed with extraordinary gifts.”

Now that was complete horseshit. “Name one good thing about seeing the spirits of the dead that isn’t just about impressing your mom. This doesn't feel like a blessing. It feels like a suicide mission."

"Yeah." Alex nodded and mashed his face in his hand. ”I really fucked up. Pretty sure I absorbed something from you when I kissed you and tried to invade your brain that kicked the ritual into overdrive. What I meant about potential power is that I keep looking at you and more stuff keeps popping up in your aura. It's so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.“

"Stop talking about me like that. You barely know me." Brock pushed back the brim of his hat and peered out at the horizon. They’d be back in the valley in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes until they had to save the world. It felt like the anticipation of straddling a bull in the rodeo chute.

Alex put his hand on Brock’s thigh. “If we survive this, I'd like to get to know you better, cowboy. Do you have a lasso? Do you know how to tie knots? Do you have assless leather chaps?"

The heat of Alex’s hand was a welcome distraction. Brock smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, I have both a lariat and a hog-tie rope. I'm very good at tying knots, very quickly. All chaps are assless. You're shameless, you know that?" 

"Everything happens for a reason. Call it destiny, call it fate. Call it years of planning for the proper alignment of the stars. I don't ignore my intuition or my attraction. You and I, we're meant to coalesce." A squeeze that rolled over to the inside of Brock’s thigh.

"You're still drunk." Brock envied him the escape of alcohol. 

Alex didn’t move his hand and he scooted closer on the benchseat, whacking his knee on the gearshift knob. “I might be. Just a little. I think that's appropriate for waging war on a deity. You're the one who has to get the samples. You think you can do that?"

Hot breath on his neck, hotter lips pressed behind his earlobe. ”Blood, check. Hair, check. The last one? I've been on my knees before."

Alex worried the flesh of Brock’s earlobe with his teeth and in spite of everything, Brock felt his pants begin to tighten. “Really? Tell me more."

“Shit!” Brock quickly corrected his truck from veering off the gravel road. “If we survive this, how about I _show_ you."

Alex whooped a laugh and moved back to his side of the seat. ”You certainly know how to motivate a man to survive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two idiots make me smile.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in folks! This is a LONG ONE. Warning for dubious consent regarding a deity.

Brock pulled his truck over about a quarter mile from his trailer. He pointed at the landmarks for Alex. “This my place. About a mile down the road there's the intersection of the two state highways and the last chance to get gas, food and bathrooms for an hour." Alex’s brow furrowed as he followed Brock’s gesture. Brock added helpfully, “It's also the post office."

"Of course it is." Alex squinted at the gas station on the horizon and rubbed his eyes, then he squinted again. "Are you sure you left Buddy in your trailer?"

"Yes. Parked his ass in front of the VCR with a bunch of snacks. Why? What do you see? Binoculars are in the glove box.” Alex peered through them and shuddered, a full body shiver. 

"Remember how we were talking about volcanoes? There's a pretty terrifying eruption of spiritual energy spouting up from the post office/gas station/public bathrooms.” 

"Oh no." Of course Buddy wouldn’t have stuck around. He was so easily bored and ravenously hungry. “He went for a walk.” 

"Yeah. He found some more followers. That's what gods tend to do.” Alex set down the binoculars. “Let’s get the blood and hair. You have to consecrate them." 

Brock pulled into his driveway in a spray of gravel and left the truck running. He came out with a ripped piece of blood stained dog blanket and a gob of tangled dark hair in his hands. 

"And how do I do this?” 

“We're going to treat this like a ritual, like a spell. Hold the stuff in your hands, close your eyes and think really, really hard about how you want to protect this place. Remember, intent is the foundation of all magical thinking and especially prayer." Alex cupped his hands beneath Brock’s. They were soft and warm with no calluses and neat clean fingernails.

Brock curled his fingers closed. “So you want me to pray?" 

Alex smiled at his simplicity. “Yes. Just pray your tight little ass off."

"Every church I've been to has implied that I'm a filthy homo sinner. I’ve never really prayed before.” Not even on the back of a rodeo bull. He’d always felt left behind by the comforts of faith. Seeing the dead wandering about in foggy imitation of their former lives didn’t give him much hope for a benevolent god overseeing the afterlife. 

"As a fellow sodomite and life long practitioner of the taboo arts, believe me when I tell you that it doesn't matter how many dicks you suck as long as you don't intend to harm someone. You just have to believe. Can you believe in that?” 

Brock couldn’t believe in a kind god looking down from Heaven, but he could believe in the cruel chaos on Earth that Buddy promised. He could believe in Alex’s lightly bloodshot blue eyes and chapped rosy lips. He could believe in the kindness and charity of Steve and Peggy.He could believe in the stark beauty of the valley around him, from the sagebrush covered valley floor to the blue-black hills. He could believe in all that with utter certainty. “Yes.”

Alex nodded and pressed their joined hands against his own heart. “I’m going to pray with you. Take these offerings, oh Great Chaos and Order of the Cosmos and use them to protect my friend." 

Static electricity crawled over Brock’s skin, caused the hairs on his arms to stand on end. Brock closed his eyes and felt something bloom beneath his ribcage, something new, powerful and terrifying. He wasn’t the same person that he had been yesterday. “Please help me save my home. My family. My friends. Please help me and this fucking lunatic save the world." It was as sincere a prayer as he could muster. He ducked his head at the profanity that had slipped out. "Sorry about that.”

Alex shrugged. “Eh, I've been called worse." He drew Brock closer and kissed him. The simple, sweet sincerity of the gesture caused something soft and long dormant deep inside Brock to awaken and entangle with his new power. Alex’s eyes widened in amazement as he gazed at Brock’s aura. ”Whoa. Is all that for me, cowboy? I love seeing your aura flare red when I do that. You're incredible. So how are you going to get that last sample?" 

"Walk in. Get on my knees. Don't swallow. Excuse myself to the bathroom and read the ritual chant. You’d better stay here. Buddy wants to kill you."

"That's not terribly surprising. Disturbing, but not surprising. Is that why you came to see me?" Brock nodded and Alex rested his forehead against Brock’s. He took a deep breath. “So he thinks we can hurt him. _Good._”

"You'd best keep praying for me Alex."

"I will Brock."

“I’m going to need all the prayers I can get.” Brock murmured to himself as he pulled up to the gas station. There were too many vehicles parked around the building. Some even blocked the pumps. Old Roy would never allow that, he was too keen on making money on overpriced gasoline. Brock pulled open the gas station’s creaky door, the cowbell mounted on the top announced his entry with a dull clang.

In the midst of the old glass doored drink coolers, cabinets of candy bars and never sold tourist trinkets sat Buddy. He occupied Old Roy’s overstuffed threadbare recliner, his legs spread wide. Sharon sat at his bare dirty feet, resting her cheek against one of his calves, like the cover of a bad fantasy novel. Old Roy sat beside the chair, his round red face staring up at Buddy in fascination. At least five other members of the community sat on the grimy dark wood floor, most of them too old to get up off the floor without assistance. There were a few people Brock didn’t know, they must have been highway travelers. Peggy sat farthest away, pressed up against the tobacco stained wallpaper underneath the baseball bat mounted on the bar, scowling at her gnarled hands and then blinking as if her thoughts had drifted away like cigarette smoke. 

_It was a good thing that it was in the middle of a school day,_ Brock thought. _All the kids were out of harm’s way._

Buddy ran his fingers through Sharon’s limp blonde hair. Brock had never seen her without her hairspray and hot roller helmet. “Look who finally came home. My wayward high priest. I had to compel my new flock to keep me company. Everyone, this is Brock. He’s my first follower, my high priest, my _favorite._” 

_What a dubious honor. _

Buddy patted his unoccupied leg. “Come here Brock.”

“I know what’s been spilled on that floor in the past, I think I’d rather stand.” Brock shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets, hiding the bulge of the small velvet bag filled with hair and blood. “I guess you ran out of movies to watch.” 

“Fast forward.” Buddy smirked and wound a strand of hair around his finger so tight that Sharon winced. “Why weren’t you compelled to return to me? Where were you?” 

“Up in the north field. I needed some time to think about all of this.” 

“Silly priest. You belong to me know, you never need to think again. You’re quite precious to me Brock. I used a fair amount of my sacred power to bless and consecrate you. Can you feel my power coursing through your veins? You have potential now that I scraped off the previous blessing that sat around your shoulders like a golden noose. I don’t know who blessed you, but they were foolish to let you roam free. I have claimed you.” 

So that’s why it felt like he had horseflies buzzing in the back of his brain. Buddy had changed him. “I’d rather not, I might get too big for my hat.” 

Buddy laughed as if Brock had done some adorable pet trick. “Don’t fret. I’ll train you. Hone all of your considerable gifts. It’s inevitable. It’s why I was drawn to you. You can’t argue with fate.” 

“Oh I reckon I can—!” Brock felt himself yanked forward and he fell hard on his hands and knees. He looked up at Buddy, the vessel’s eyes were black voids filled with pin-point stars. Brock gasped as he felt Buddy’s power surge. He was showing off. He was so much more powerful than last night.

“My first worshipper. My first priest. My most powerful disciple.” Buddy’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes returned to a cold human-like veneer of normalcy. “I know how lonely you have been, Brock. Endless nights spent waiting for crumbs of human companionship. Endless days pretending to be a normal sheep. Well you don’t have to wait or pretend anymore. I have a present for you. This is Sharon.” 

Brock locked his elbows, trying to keep his face from slamming into the dirty floor. “I— I know who she is.”

“Sharon has so many secrets.” Buddy curled his fingers around her throat and Sharon swallowed hard. “One especially deep terrible secret for which she yearns for absolution. Something for which her impotent god could never forgive her. But I can, because I am her new God and she will be grateful to me. Forever indebted to me. And no one will ever know what she did.” 

“She killed her mother.” Brock spat out. The pressure on the nape of his neck lessened and he knelt back on his heels. The population of the valley stared at the three of them as their deepest secrets were revealed. 

Sharon screwed her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners. “It was an accident. She tripped. I tried to catch her, but I wasn’t fast enough—“ 

Buddy rolled his eyes at her grief, bored by her all too human feelings. He leaned forward and rested his hands on his thighs. “And just how did you know that?” Pressure from phantom fingers squeezed at Brock’s throat. 

“Gladys told me.” Brock gasped out. “She can’t rest.” Brock didn’t look at Peggy for her reaction to his confession. He couldn’t. 

Buddy leaned back in his threadbare throne and smiled. “It all makes sense now. Your splendid aura. You can communicate with the souls of the dead. What’s it like? Do they whisper into your ears?” The god that fell from the stars couldn’t communicate with the dead. Buddy wasn’t all powerful, he wasn’t omnipotent or all knowing. He was _hungry_, licking his wolfish lips as if Brock were a slab of meat.

Brock rubbed at his throat, hyperaware of the danger he was in. “It’s more like Charades.” 

Sharon quietly sobbed against the fabric of the recliner, her face turned away from them. 

“You just become more and more fascinating, my priest. That new passionate flare of red in your aura, for example.” 

“What about it?” _Oh please, don’t let my feelings betray Alex._

Buddy smiled with all his teeth, the corners of his mouth distended and stretched. “You love _me,_ more and more. That’s the essence of passion, of desire. It’s written all over your aura.”

Brock gulped and ducked his head, the tips of his ears burning. This was his chance. His opening. “You caught me. I guess I can’t deny it.” Buddy raised his chin in triumph and Brock babbled out the praises that Alex had bestowed upon him, the words that made his head spin. “I mean, look at you. You’re amazing, incredible. You’re so beautiful. And powerful. You’re _perfect._” Buddy preened. Brock exhaled to steady his nerves and then blurted out, “May I show you how much I worship you? Like out back behind the beer coolers?”

Buddy seized Brock’s chin and pushed Sharon away from him. She slammed into the display case, shattering it. Brock turned to help her, but Buddy’s steel grip on his jaw held him tight. “Forget her. Worship me _now._” Brock glanced over at Peggy. She held her hands over her mouth in horror, blood drained from her face. “If you like I’ll kill everyone here so they won’t be a distraction.” Buddy purred, “Do you want to make a sacrifice of your loved ones to me?”

“— I’d rather suck your dick.” Brock reached for the waistband of Buddy’s sweatpants and fumbled with numb fingers. “That is if your vessel can feel such human pleasures.”

With a smirk, Buddy released his grip and lifted up his hips. “Acceptable.” 

It was just an average sized dick. Cut and clean. He’d soaped it off with his own hands last night. It was just like a gloryhole at a truckstop bathroom. _No big deal. No big deal._Brock closed his eyes and opened his mouth, the salty sweat weight of Buddy’s prick on his tongue. The hand in his hair pulled hard, the pain making his eyes well up with tears as he sucked. He’d known all the people watching him for years. Old Jess needed help with his firewood each fall. Ms. Ward’s retired greyhound kept escaping from her fence and showing up on Brock’s doorstep with a rabbit in her jaws. He’d taught the Wilson sisters how to ice skate on the frozen alkaline lake, bonfires on the lakeshore lighting the midnight skies. Peggy— Peggy saved him from an early booze and madness soaked death, gave him a home. 

Buddy thrust up, stabbing into the back of his throat and gagged him, tears shook loose from Brock’s lashes. _No big deal. No big deal. _

“Yes, my priest. Worship your god.” Buddy groaned, tangling both hands in Brock’s hair and fucking his face. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, humiliation burned Brock’s cheeks as he hollowed them around Buddy’s cock. Buddy pulled out for a moment, slipped his weeping cock against Brock’s cheeks and jacked himself slowly. He commanded, “Swallow.” _No. Oh no!_ “Swallow down my blessing, my essence. My sacred whore, first among my followers.” Brock tried to escape, but Buddy held him fast, spurting down his throat with a groan. As the ejaculate pulsed over the back of Brock’s tongue, power flared around them. Bottles of cheap booze popped and shattered behind the bar and the television flickered off and on. “_Yes.”_

Brock pulled back, finally able to escape Buddy’s grip. His jaw ached and his lips were sore. His stubble covered chin was sloppy wet with spittle and his mouth tasted of bitter spunk. _Fuck. He’d swallowed corpse cum._ How could he perform the ritual now? He slumped to the ground, defeated. 

“Hmmm.” Buddy purred. “That was a good start. But I don’t think your heart was in it.” He regarded Brock with a curious, malicious clarity and snapped his fingers. A flare of blinding bright light. Alex stood in front of them, Brock’s telephone receiver pressed against his ear, the severed cord swaying.

“I’ll call you back later Mom.” Alex finished automatically and dropped the receiver onto the floor. Brock cried out and Buddy planted his dirty bare foot on the center of Brock’s chest, kicking him to the floor. 

“The necromancer.” Buddy slung his leg over the arm of his throne, his limp wet cock still cooling in the air. “Don’t bother trying to lie to me. Your aura says it all.” 

“So does yours. Jesus Christ.” Alex softly swore, awe tinging his voice. 

“Not even close.” Buddy gestured with a lazy flip of his wrist and Alex joined Brock on the floor. “So the necromancer stole your heart from me. Filthy thing. You trapped me in this inferior vessel hoping to steal my power!”

“I was just hoping to summon a lesser spirit, maybe a minor demon at the most. I’m not that good at this. I did not mean any disrespect. Promise. Hey babe, you’ve got a little something right here.” Alex tapped on his own chin. A drip of cum trapped in Brock’s stubble. “I can tell when I’m out-matched, out-gunned and out-classed. You are magnificence incarnate, a jewel in the pantheon of deities.” Alex stalled as Brock wiped his chin on his fingers and slowly moved towards his pocket. 

Buddy raised an eyebrow. “You’d say anything to save your lowly life.” 

“Just a part of being a lowly pathetic human stunned by your splendor, oh splendiferous one! This whole world is ripe for your whims and absolute rule. I can feel your immense power and I am but a humble _worm. _A worm! Cowering before your presence.” Alex bowed and scraped before Buddy. “I am not fit to gaze upon your ever so glorious countenance.” 

Brock shoved his semen coated fingers into the sacramental pouch and whispered his prayer, “Please help me save my home. My family. My friends. My Alex.” His fingers burned as if he’d dipped them in a deep fat fryer. 

Buddy and Brock screamed in unison. The television exploded. The god thrashed in his chair, kicking and wailing as the cash register sprang open and spilled cash out in a cascade. Bottles and cans of beer and soda pop exploded in the coolers before the glass doors shattered. 

“NO!” Buddy howled, his voice shaking the rafters. “NO!”He curled his fingers into taloned claws and lunged at Brock. “I WILL DESTROY YOU. I WILL DESTROY THIS WORLD.” 

Alex threw his body over Brock’s, crying out as his back was torn open by Buddy’s claws. Buddy threw Alex clear across the gas station and he landed in a pile of canned food, motionless. The god reached for Brock, intent on tearing out his throat. A sudden CRACK! and the ominous howling ceased. Buddy fell face forward onto the floor, landing half on top of Brock. Peggy stood behind Buddy, the old baseball bat from behind the bar in her trembling hands. 

Brock pushed Buddy’s body off of him and looked at his own unharmed fingers. He’d expected to see charred nubs, reduced to bone and ash. He felt for a pulse in the god’s throat and heaved a huge sob of relief. “He’s dead. He’s finally dead. Again.” 

Peggy dropped the bat and sank to her knees. Brock gathered her into his arms. “It’s alright. It’s alright now. Thank you.” She shivered and Brock pressed a kiss to the side of her face. 

“Brock!” Alex lifted his head and called out. Brock left Peggy and scrambled to Alex’s side. “We— _we_ _fucked_ _up_.”

“No, he’s gone. We broke the link!” 

“He can— still return— to the empty vessel!” Alex passed out, his head cradled in Brock’s hands. Brock stared stricken at the corpse laying on the gas station floor. It began to twitch. 

“No. No. No! NO!” Brock lunged at the body, wrapping his hands around its pale throat. “You can’t have this world. You can’t have it! I won’t let you!” The body began to smile even as Brock’s knuckles turned white. 

_Hello? Can anyone hear me?_ A new voice, feeble and weak in Brock’s brain. _It’s so cold. Please help me._

Brock pulled his coat tight around his body, it did little to keep out the biting cold. Spring calves sometimes meant spring snowstorms. Snow reflected off of the snow, blinding and dazzling his vision. He just had to find that one lost calf. He squinted up into the violet sky at the crows circling him. Buzzards meant a dead calf, crows would go after the living even in this place.

He trudged through the drifts as wind whipped up gusty whirlwinds of snow, somehow knowing which direction to go as if he had a compass. Of course he knew where the lost one was. It was his job, to take care of the little lost ones. It had always been his job… Why hadn’t he known that? He set his jaw with grim determination and strode through the snow. Snow that would never melt, never fade away.

Brock saw a hand sticking out of a drift. He was awake, eyes wide open and clear. His breath didn’t fog in the cold as Brock hauled him to his feet. He didn’t have breath. Nothing did in this place. “You came for me?” 

Brock nodded. “Come on. Let’s get out of the cold.” 

Brock blinked. All his muscles ached as if he’d walked a thousand miles. Slowly sound began to penetrate the fog in his ears. Screaming. Too much screaming. He rolled over, the effort winding him. Peggy held the bat over a terrified Buddy— _no_. 

“That’s not Buddy.” Brock croaked out. “That’s not him.” 

“You passed out and started twitching! It sure the hell looks like him!” Peggy yelled and wound up to swing the bat. 

The young man shook his head and cringed under both of his arms for cover. He looked familiar. “I’m not him ma’am! Please don’t hit me! All I remember is that I was driving my daddy’s car up to Wintersage and I think I crashed it and— oh my god! I have TWO ARMS!” Huh. The one armed spirit from the side of the road last night. It was him all along. 

“He’s not the bad guy. Buddy is gone. Trust me.” Brock smiled as he closed his eyes in relief. “It’s over.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for an epilogue!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Period typical homophobia, slur and mention of child abuse/emotional abuse

Brock mopped the back of his sweaty neck with his bandana and leaned against the corral. He’d fixed the squeeze chute before noon. “Made good time, didn’t we?” Brock said to himself. Buzzards swooped and rode the air currents high above him. Streaks of thin, wispy clouds glazed the sky. It was a beautiful early summer day. It seemed like years since the whole messy incident.

He walked back to his truck, whistling a nonsense tune. Maybe he’d head into town tonight and catch a movie. The heel of his boot caught on something and he glanced down, then knelt in the dirt. 

“What the hell?” Was that a _hand_? He took a step back, queasy at the sight of fingers stabbing out from the dirt. A crunch of bone and skin beneath his boot. The ground was littered with desiccated corpses, sprouting up from the dust like flesh puppets.

Brock hopped into the cab of his truck and covered his face with his hands. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. He peeked out from between his fingers. Corpses lurched to their feet and staggered towards the truck. Steve pressed his dead cold face against the glass, blue eyes cloudy with death. Peggy clawed at the door and Alex— no — not Alex! “This isn’t real. It can’t be real. We stopped him. It’s over. It’s over.” 

“It’s never really over, my priest.” A murmur beside his ear, chilling his marrow. Buddy tore out Brock’s still-beating heart from his chest. Brock screamed as Buddy bit into the organ like a tough fleshy red apple, the god licked his blood covered fingers and laughed. “I’m a part of you now.”

“Brock. Brock!” Brock sat up, covered in a sheen of cold panic sweat. He stared down at his intact, perfectly unharmed chest. Alex patted Brock’s arm and rubbed the sleep from his own eyes. He’d been dozing on the couch, watching the front door surreptitiously. A man who knew all the exits. “It was a dream. Just a dream.” He handed a Brock a glass of water.

“I’m never going to be able to sleep again.” Brock took a sip of the tepid tap water. “I keep seeing his face. How are you sleeping?”

“I don’t really dream.” Alex shrugged with a yawn.

“You lucky bastard.” Brock grimaced and drained his water.

Alex took the glass from him and curled up beside Brock on the narrow bed in Brock’s trailer. He was fully dressed complete with shoes as if he expected to leave at a moment’s notice. “I haven’t had a dream I could recall since I started seeing auras. Probably some sort of brain damage. I’ll watch over you, okay?” Brock settled back down into his sheets, his shorts clammy against his legs in the heat. Alex combed Brock’s hair back from his face, the soothing intimacy slowly unfrazzling his surge of panic. “Once upon a time—“ Alex began.

“I’m a little old for fairytales.” Brock said and Alex poked him in the ribs with a finger. “Ow.”

“Hush now. I’m telling a story. Once upon a time, a very long time ago, two brothers sold their souls for power for themselves and their bloodline. But they did not specify the details. One has to be very specific when selling one’s soul. You only have one. Well, unless you’re a hybrid soul, two souls melded into one, which they weren’t. But it’s still interesting to think about.” Alex trailed off into a tangental thought and then continued, “The demon declared that the brothers would have immense unfathomable power but that it would be granted to one of their far distant descendants. Also the entire family line would be both cursed and blessed with lesser mystic and esoteric abilities.”

“Countless years later, the greedy men had been dragged to hell but their descendants thrived. They spread out over the world, having many children. Each of these children held a power. Some could talk to the dead. Some could speak with animals. A few could see the future or heal minds. Some were quite mad. That was probably from the inbreeding. Never a good idea. Over the centuries their powers became diluted through new blood of marriages. A few sparks would flare up now and then, reminding the families of their ancient ancestors’ bargain, but those gifts were easily hidden and locked away.”

“Until a man with the gift of raising the dead was born. He could accomplish this feat for a few minutes. Reanimation rather than resurrection. And that man found a distant uncle who had the gift of prophecy. When they met, they hated each other on sight. For the prophet knew that none of his children would inherit the demon’s gift. The necromancer’s descendant would.” Alex yawned and scratched the side of his nose. “And that’s one of the reasons the police get called to my family reunions. Also Grandma is a bit of a drinker.”

“Was the necromancer your grandfather?” Brock asked, threading his fingers into Alex’s. 

“Yup. Mr. Hot Shit himself. That’s what he said happened. It’s probably all total bullshit. Bullshit passed down for generations to fuck up people’s lives.” Alex squeezed Brock’s fingers and sighed in the dark. “But the important part is that there’s not a single mention of Buddy coming back in the prophecy. So I choose to believe that we won. In the face of overwhelming odds, we won.”

“Is that why you’re still dressed? Why you have your suitcase by the door?” It had only been a few days, why did the idea of Alex walking away from him make his chest seize up? 

Alex sighed in the dark. “Force of habit, I suppose. I don’t trust normal people. A lot of normal folks got caught up in this and they’re hard to predict. Fear and panic sometimes take a while to set in. Maybe they’ll just drink it off, try to forget that they were touched by something so much larger than they are.” Alex sank back into the pillows. He waved his hand, tracing the patterns of aura that Brock couldn’t see. 

“This band of brilliant sparkling gold, right here, was coiled around your neck and your heart when we first met. Pure raw power meshed with indigo blue. I almost swallowed my tongue when I saw you. I wonder if it was always there, from the moment you were born. Maybe your father was one of my extended family. Maybe you’re one of my long lost cousins.” Alex put a soft kiss behind Brock’s ear, his lips curled in amusement. “Kissing cousins.” 

“Oh god, don’t say that.” Brock protested, the heat of Alex’s body beginning to soothe away the nightmares. 

“Oh please, it’s not like we can inbreed. No matter how hard we try.” Alex laughed. “Now there’s also these ropes of silvery gold wrapped all around you, I think that’s Buddy’s power. It’s not as strong as your original blessing. It’s looped around your body like a boa constrictor and failing to overwhelm the other power. Did you feel anything when the ritual activated?” 

“It felt like my whole body was on fire, like my bones were burning to ashes. It felt like I was grabbing onto a red-hot branding iron. I thought was was going to die, Alex. Then suddenly I was in the snow. The north field in March. Nothing burned after that.”

“That’s where you found the vessel’s spirit.” 

“Yeah. It was so easy to just grab his hand and haul him up out of a snowbank.” Brock scratched at the side of his chin and murmured, “The little, lost ones.” 

Alex stiffened beside him. “What was that?” 

“That’s what I thought about in the cold place. The protector of the little, lost ones. I think it’s supposed to be my _job_? But I already have one…” Brock stared up at the ceiling of his trailer. The vague certainty that he had a job to do felt right, settled in his marrow. “I wasn’t a normal person, but now… I don’t think I’m just a medium now.” 

“I don’t think that you ever were just a medium. Not with these mystical power transfers and a real, actual resurrection. This is just a guess, but I think there’s something magnetically attractive about you. It’s not just your jawline and cheekbones, Hot Stuff. I think that spirits and other mystical entities are drawn to you. Like moths to a flame. And something really big, old and powerful lit that golden fire within you.”

“Why would something like that choose me?”

“How could we mortals hope to understand the whims of the divine?” Alex pressed his nose up against the hollow behind Brock’s ear. “From recent personal experience, gods are jerks.” 

“Buddy is gone, so why do I still have his power wrapped around me?” 

“Can you forget about his existence?” Alex asked and Brock shook his head. “Well then he’s never really gone. You’re still his priest. Blessed and sanctified, full of divine energy. I never thought that you’d drain his essence, that wasn’t in any of the books I’ve read. You’re so fascinating. I could write a book.”

“A whole book?”

“Mmm hmm. I might be a terrible necromancer but I am damn good at hoarding bits and pieces of esoteric information. They’re like my treasures. You don’t want to sit next to me on a bus, I will talk your ear off.” 

“You’re the only one who knows what’s going on with me. I’m grateful.” Alex stiffened as if he hadn’t heard that before. “I couldn’t have done any of this without your help and your guidance. You’re the amazing one.” It was the truth. 

“Keep talking like that cowboy and the only way you’ll get rid of me is tying me up and leaving me in the desert all alone for the buzzards.” Alex snorted at himself. “Don’t do that. Just tell me if I’m a bother. Now this alarm is going to go off at the ass crack of sunrise so try to get a little sleep. I’m here, I’ll watch out for you.” 

So this was what being the little spoon felt like. His hand rested on the crest of Brock’s hip, as Alex traced small circles with his thumb. Brock felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir with each of Alex’s soft exhalations. He needed a bigger bed.

“We’re going to need another coat of paint in here.” Brock squinted at the streaky white paint. “Why did you have to paint the whole damn house glossy black again? Was it something mystical?”

Alex snorted, a swipe of white paint upon his forehead. “I just thought it looked cool. And it kept everyone busy. We fixed the screen on the porch and added a swing, so don’t be so judgmental. Do you know how hard it is to wrangle a bunch of wannabe necromantic mages? Everyone needed a chore so they felt they participated.”

“Kindergarten for necromancers?” Brock popped the lid off of a gallon of white paint. “Did you have snack time and naps too?” 

“Kindergarten was one of the best times of my life, don’t you dare impugn it.” Alex tapped the excess paint off of his stir stick. “Nap time is very important for the mystical arts. Balances out your chakras.” 

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around it all.” Brock sat down on the drop cloth. All the windows and doors were open to vent the fumes and a breeze swooshed through the farmhouse. “Did all of _that_ really happen? Did we really save the whole damn world? Or was it some crazy mass hallucination?” 

Alex sighed as he touched up the trim around a door. “It would probably be easier for your neighbors if it was a hallucination. Are any of them talking to you yet?” Alex had thrown his bag into the back of Brock’s truck, not ready to trust the locals just yet.

Brock grimaced and peeled a spot of dry paint from his forearm hair. “Nope. Old Jess won’t even make eye contact with me. Watching me suck off a dude in his armchair tends to sour neighborly goodwill. The insurance company is not making it easy for him. Apparently demonic possession doesn’t actually fall under the Acts of God clause. And tourists are showing up, asking where the exorcism took place.” 

Alex nodded, pulled off his t-shirt and mopped his face with it. “I’m a stranger so I wondered if the cold shoulder was particular to me. You’ve lived here your whole life, doesn’t that count for anything?”

“I thought it might.” Brock shrugged, concealing his wounded feelings. “I didn’t do it for gratitude or praise. It had to be done. Peggy and Steve are hiding the vessel away until his memory comes back. They’ve always been a soft touch for lost causes. I’m a little worried about Sharon. I think Buddy was awful to her, more than anyone probably knows.” 

“Are you thinking about helping her with her dead mom problem?” Alex stretched his back, the massive tattoo between his shoulders flexing and stretching.

“If I can. I think I should.” Brock pointed at Alex with his paintbrush. “What’s with that tattoo on your back? It doesn’t really seem to be your taste.” “What? On my back?” Alex peered over his shoulder. “You can see that?” 

“It’s pretty visible.” Brock stood up and gestured for Alex to turn around.

“It shouldn’t be.” Alex stood next to Brock as he traced the outline of the hand with the tip of his finger, making Alex shiver in the mid-day heat. Alex ran to the bathroom down the hall and peered over his shoulder in shock. 

“The tattoo is only supposed to show up when it tries to protect me from something really, really bad. That’s Buddy’s hand.” Alex turned green and almost threw up in the sink. “I’m marked for life. It’s a curse mark_._ I’m cursed, Brock.”

“What’s the curse? Can we get rid of it?” Brock took a step closer and Alex recoiled from him.

“Don’t touch me! It might transfer to you. Curses are unpredictable. I can’t read it in the mirror. I never could read Dad’s sigil writing. But it doesn’t look good. Holy shit. I half forgot all about this.”

The tattooed fingers spanned the width of Alex’s shoulders, wicked nails drawing patterned slashes down the skin. It looked charred and seared into Alex’s skin. The effect was uncanny. Brock leaned against the bathroom doorframe. “You forgot about that? How drunk were you?” 

“I wasn’t drunk. I was like eight years old.” Brock’s mouth dropped open and Alex waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not like that. My father is a tattoo artist. A really good one. But more importantly, he’s also a seer. One of those people who can see actual events that will happen in the future. He specializes in warding sigil tattoos. Unique magic-infused designs to ward off evil and malicious intent. He used special clear ink and the weals faded over the years. My whole back is covered and I kinda forgot about it.” Alex craned his neck to look at the image engraved upon his pale skin. “I should be _dead.”_

“I remember we were eating ice cream on a hot day and he had one of his visions, the ice cream cone melted all over his hand, down his leg. The doctors called them seizures, but my family knew what they really were. After that vision, I was on the tattoo table for a month, listening to sitar music on the record player and talking about school while he worked on me.”

Brock hesitantly reached out his hand, wary of the mark upon Alex’s skin. Alex watched him in the mirror, his head lowered in resignation and shame. “I’m sorry Brock.” 

_No._ He wouldn’t allow Alex to feel as rejected and as alone as he once had. That’s what Buddy would have wanted. He pressed his hand to the tattoo, felt the weals and ridges of pigment, downy soft hairs beneath his fingertips as Alex gasped. Alex sucked in a breath of surprise when Brock kissed his shoulder, then the nape of his neck and finally the center of the monstrous handprint. He dragged his lips up the ridge of Alex’s spine, worshiping his skin with slow, soft kisses. His stubbled jaw fit easily into Brock’s callused fingers as Brock gently eased him around, pressed him against the sink with his hips.

“We’ll figure it out.” Brock murmured against Alex’s lips and then he claimed them with his own. Alex gasped as Brock touched as much skin as he could, from the delicate symbols on his ribs to the wicked mark on his back. “You’re still Alex. You’re the smartest man I’ve ever met. And if I’m stuffed to the gills with Buddy’s stolen power, then what can his curses do to me?” Alex whimpered as tears leaked from his tightly closed eyes and Brock did his best to kiss away the salty ribbons. “Maybe your curse is that you have to deal with me and all my weird issues.” 

Alex choked on a laugh as they rested their foreheads together. “Maybe. I can hope.” 

It was dark by the time they made it back to the valley. Alex gazed out at the horizon, from their position they could see all the lights in the valley. He narrowed his eyes and tapped his finger on his lips. “Brock. Why don’t we go see Sharon.” 

“Why now?” Brock turned down the dirt road that led to the Timms’ ranch, the opposite direction from his trailer. 

Alex looked behind them in the rear view mirror. “Just trust me. I’ve got a feeling about tonight.” He flashed Brock a dazzling smile. “We should try to do some good today that’s not interior decorating.” 

They knocked on Sharon’s door and she yelled from inside the house, “Just a minute!” 

“What exactly am I supposed to do here?” Brock whispered to Alex through smile clenched teeth.

“Just follow my lead. Miss Sharon!” Alex exclaimed as Sharon poked her head out, her brow creased in irritation. “May we come in?” 

“Brock. Who the hell is this?” Sharon’s eyes were bloodshot and red, it looked like she’d been sleeping as well as he had. 

“This is Alex. He thinks he can help you with your Gladys problem.” Alex held out his hand and Sharon cautiously took it. He kissed the back of her hand and a red flustered flush spread up from her neck and rested in her cheeks. She fluttered her lashes and coughed. _I’ll never have to worry about a casserole from her again._

“Please come in.” Sharon stepped aside and held open the door. She was wearing fuzzy slippers and a bathrobe, which she tightly drew around her. 

Alex smiled at her and sat next to her on her afghan covered sofa. Brock sat in Gladys’ old rocking chair. The wood creaked underneath his weight. “My name is Alexander Ranford. We met briefly at the incident at the gas station a few days ago. Now this may sound strange, but I have certain mystical and spiritual abilities. In short, I can communicate with the dead and I’m here to help you with your deceased mother. She’s haunting you. Her spiritual pressure and emotional residue is all over this place, clinging to all the nooks and crannies. I want to help you.” Brock raised an eyebrow at Alex. _So he was the medium now?_ Alex threw a wink in Brock’s direction when Sharon looked down at the floor. _Ah. _Alex was protecting him by pretending to be the stranger with strange powers. 

“I didn’t kill my mother.” Sharon spat out, her fingers curled in her pink bathrobe. “It was an accident. We were fighting and she tried to choke me. She tripped on the accent rug. Hit her head on the cabinet.” She closed her eyes, warding off the terrible memory. “Old people are so fragile. Bones like birds and skin like tissue paper. She screamed at me until she stopped screaming at me. She just stopped. There was nothing I could do.” Her big blue eyes were bloodshot and red, rings of old makeup around them accentuating her fatigue. “And that’s the only time I’m going to tell you about that.” 

“No one said that you did anything wrong,” Alex began in a soothing tone. 

Sharon lashed out, “Brock did! Brock told everyone at the gas station that I murdered her. How could you do that to me?” 

Gladys seemed to think that her daughter had killed her. Could a spirit be wrong? “I did a lot of things that day that I didn’t want to do.” Brock rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “We’ve known each other for a lot of years and I should have known better. I apologize. I wasn’t in my right mind at the time.” 

“Sure seemed like you were into it. You have a lot of practice at cock-sucking Brock? It all makes a lot of sense in hindsight. God I was such a fool. No. You made a fool out of me. You led me on with your quiet, respectful gentleman act, but I was never enough for you, was I?” Sharon gritted her teeth. “I wasted so many casseroles on you.”

Alex had the good grace to look up at the ceiling as Brock cringed inwardly. “I hope we can still be friends, Sharon.” 

She chewed at her lower lip and then shook her head, sharp and decisive. “I don’t think we can.” Sharon turned towards Alex and smoothed her bathrobe over her legs. “So. You think I’m being haunted.” 

Alex rested his hands on his thighs, palms open to the ceiling and tilted his head back as if listening to a higher plane. His eyelashes fluttered as he intoned, “I’m sure of it. I can sense her presence quite strongly. Stubborn spirit. She can’t let go. This was her home and she can’t move on into the light.” He was putting on quite the show, maybe he was imitating his mother’s seances.

“Is she unhappy?” Sharon asked lightly. 

“Very.” Alex took a theatrically deep breath and exhaled. “Spirits are closely attuned to the places where their mortal bodies perished. I’d like to exorcise her, release her from the torment of this earthly plane. With your permission, of course.” 

Brock was expecting tears of grief or relief. The tight satisfied smile that spread across Sharon’s lips was a surprise. “She can fucking _suffer_. Now please leave my home.” She stood up and urged them towards the door. 

“Miss Sharon, please reconsider. We could put your mother’s spirit to rest and ease your troubled mind too.” Alex paused in the foyer, “Please.” 

“Do you know how many wooden spoons that woman broke on me? How many times she screamed in my face that I’d never be pretty enough? I’d never be smart enough? I’d never be _good_ enough? Do you?” She took a step forward with each question and Alex retreated backwards towards the exit. 

“She chased away every man I ever had feelings for with her _bullshit_ and she probably let me chase after Brock because somehow she knew he’s a homo! I’m going to bring home every goddamn useless man I want to and make her watch me _fuck_ them. Her slut of a daughter. Every disappointment and scandal she feared just raining down upon her precious reputation.” Sharon tossed back her head and laughed, a hyena screech. Alex stumbled backwards down the steps into Brock’s arms. “And the best part of it, is that she’s dead! She can’t do anything about it! Eventually I’m going to sell this shithole of a ranch and make her watch a whole new family start over. I want her to watch and know that she’ll never have any of that. She doesn’t deserve rest. She can stay right here and _rot._” She slammed the door in their faces.

Alex looked up at Brock, a sheepish grin on his face. “So that went well.” 

“Quite a convincing act, Mr. Medium.” Brock helped Alex up to his feet. The blonde straightened out his rumpled shirt sleeves. “I assume you learned that from watching your mother.” 

“Yup. Madame Noir de Nuit, Spiritual Advisor to the not so rich and famous. Selling the act is almost more important than having the actual gift. Speaking of which, is the spirit out here?”

Gladys was sitting on the bench overlooking her small shabby, overgrown vegetable plot. Brock sat on the bench beside her. “Gladys.” The old woman peered up at him, flickering and gauzy. “Gladys. You know you’re dead, don’t you?” A nod. Brock leaned forward, rested his forearms on his thighs. “Why are you still hanging around here?” 

Gladys pointed towards the house behind them. Brock looked over his shoulder and Sharon shut the curtains and turned off the lights. “She didn’t kill you. It was an accident. You were trying to hurt her.” Gladys sighed, her knobby shoulders raising and falling with the memory of breath and nodded again. As he spoke to the ghost, she seemed to dwindle. “She doesn’t need you now. She’s tough as nails and she’s going to be fine. If you stay, you’ll be miserable watching her be miserable.”

Gladys beckoned for him to lean closer. He opened his hand and she put her ghostly palm in his. Brock closed his eyes. 

They were in the snow-covered field where he’d found the vessel’s missing spirit. He held her hand as they looked out at the endless horizon. Violet skies stretched overhead and gusts of snowflakes that could never melt glittered like diamond flakes under an eternal, cool, bright sun. “What do you want me to tell her, Gladys?” 

Her mouth opened and shut for a moment, then she spoke with firm conviction. “I was the disappointment. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry, my Baby Bunny.” 

Brock opened his eyes. There was a smear of fine glimmer dust upon his fingertips, dust that no one else could see. He wiped his hand off on his jeans and approached the front door. 

“Go away Brock!” Sharon yelled through the door. Brock stood on the front step, waiting. A few minutes later Brock heard muffled cursing and Sharon threw open the door, a double-barreled shotgun in her hands. “I’m going to call the cops—“ 

Brock held up his hands. “Gladys wanted you to know that she was the disappointment. Not you. And she’s sorry. She said, ‘I’m sorry, my Baby Bunny.’” 

“Ffff— ffff— “ Sharon stammered as tears streamed down her face and she loaded the chamber of her shotgun. “Fuck you Brock!” Brock stumbled backwards off the steps into Alex’s arms. “How DARE you!” The men both ran for the truck, gravel spraying out behind the vehicle as they sped off. 

“So that went well.” Alex said again, panting from adrenaline. “How about we only help the damsels in distress who don’t have a shotgun?” 

“So we’re going to do this again?” Brock laughed. 

“Well yeah! It’s a perfect Saturday date night! Dinner, movie and an exorcism!”

Their laughter stopped when Brock saw a red glow up the road to his trailer. He pressed the accelerator to the floorboards. “Shit!” His home was engulfed in flames. 

Peggy and the amnesiac kid were standing away from the flames, staring in horror. The kid curled an arm around Peggy’s shoulders, firelight painting their faces. Scrawled on the front gate in black marker were the barely legible words: DEVIL WORSHIPPER, FAG and GET OUT. 

Ten years of his life. Gone. Brock fell to his hands and knees in the gravel.

“Get up.” Alex ordered and hauled Brock to his feet. “You get up right now.” He wrapped his arms around Brock’s shoulders and held him tight. “Don’t you let them see you like that. You’re worth a million of them. You hear me? You hear me Brock?” 

Brock nodded numbly. It was hard to hear Alex over the roaring crack and hiss of the flames. “You saved all of them! All of their miserable skins! They don’t deserve you. You’re coming home with me.” Alex stabbed his middle finger skywards to the fire. “One day, I’ll curse them all.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Obviously these two are going to have more adventures because Alex's family has some serious baggage/issues/magical powers. Please let me know if you liked it.

**Author's Note:**

> Saddle up! There's some weird stuff happening out on the back country roads.  
Visit me on my tumblr: libertinem.tumblr.com


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